








• < V 


\ 




• < 

Ji 


I 


• * V* . 


r ■ 






• - a 


> • 


*'^eCro5«-^^ 


- .y- .^^... 





t 


t 



0 • 
4 



, • 

‘ •• 



1 








«• 

g 





% 



&rfe 


% 





\ 


I 






• •. 




t 





■ *1 








• J 

I 


af' 





» 








» 




I 


• w 

0 > ^ 



< 


N 


)- 



« , 










THE 


KING’S PAGE, < 

A LEGEND 


The Moorish Wars in Spain, 


AND OTHER STORIES. 



V 

ANNA T. SADLIER. 



New York: washv*^^ 

D. & J. Sadlier & Co., 31 Barcl^ 

MONTREAL: 27s NOTRE DAME STREET. 


1877. 

r 


Copyright ; 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 


THE KING’S PAGE. 


I 



\ • 



i 

I 

« 



* f * ^ 

• .*# ‘ 

I 

• > Ifc 

• • ■ ( < 

-S .A t * 9 

4 



• 4 

'. 1 '~JS. 

,V‘.* t/\v» 

' ■' ■ . 

s 

y.’H^ 


s 

• 


• ■‘■'ft''' ;> 

•' f 

t 



t 

• , 


• 1 

•, . * . 

I 

/ • 

. t 

■- V 1 

* « f 

m 

• 

* > 




THE KING’S PAGE. 


The sky was full of gorgeous and trans- 
cendent hues, which the sun, prodigal of its 
beauties, lavishes on the land of morning, 
the ruby-tinted East. Now, at the close of 
a tropical day, it transformed the gray and 
rugged Sierras into a radiant fairy-land of 
pearly tints and molten gold, and rested 
on the bold, decided outlines of the Torres 
Bermejas, or Vermilion Towers, standing 
out in sharp relief against the violet hea- 
vens. In one of the gardens of the Alham- 
bra, overlooking the golden-hued Darro, 

Note. — The facts concerning Del Pulgar’s venture, De la 
Vega’s heroic combat with the Moor, and the death of Tarfe 
were translated from the Spanish, and placed at our disposal 
through the kindness of a friend, and on these are founded 
the present sketch. 


4 


A LEGEND OF THE 


stood a Moorish maiden leaning upon the 
lov/ wall which surrounded the enclosure, 
and, with veil thrown back, gazed out up- 
on the landscape, breathing the balmy air 
which at length relieved the heat of day. 
The thick, dark leaves of a pomegranate- 
tree waved above her head, bending till 
their boughs encircled her face as with a 
garland ; at her feet a flowering cactus, 
and near her, in gorgeous clusters, the 
rich, proud blossoms of the Eastern plants, 
among which, like a pale, sweet vision, the 
graceful lily upreared its slender stalk, and 
the gaudy tulip flaunted its rainbow tints, 
as if conscious of its finery. Thus surround- 
ed, and with bright, glowing beauty of deep 
and vivid coloring, of warm and radiant 
lights, she might have been mistaken for 
Flora, the goddess of the morn, the fair 
guardian of the flowers. Yet a subtle me- 
lancholy was perceptible in her face, spite 
of the haughty, flashing eyes, unsoftened 
by any gleam of tenderness. 

Hearing a step approach, she hastily con- 
cealed her face, nor raised her veil until a 
well-known voice addressed her : 

“ Zaida, my beloved, flower of the East, 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. $ 

it is thy lover who disturbs thy reverie. 
Wherefore did I note that shade of sadness 
on thy radiant face ? ” 

“ Alas ! Tarfe, my thoughts were of my 
country’s ruin. What if the ancient walls 
of fair Granada should ever shelter yonder 
infidel invaders, and the crescent of the 
Prophet give place to his usurping sym- 
bol?” 

“ Dispel such evil forebodings, light of 
my life,” replied the Moor. “ Never shall 
those accursed Christians vanquish the sons 
of Islam. Bethink thee how our fathers 
fought and died; and shall we prove re- 
creant to the trust they left us ? ” 

Nay, but our race hath fallen, and no 
more shall Granada witness those ancient 
deeds of valor.” 

“ Thou wrongest us, fair Zaida ; we are 
ever ready to strike a daring blow in behalf 
of the country we love so well.” 

“ Allah be praised ! ” she cried vehement- 
ly ; “ had I been but a man, yonder would I 
speed to the very tents of the unbelievers, 
and hurl defiance in their midst.” 

- “ And it shall be done, pearl of the East. 
Ere to-morrow’s sun hath sunk to rest, thy 


6 


A LEGEND OF THE 


wish shall be accomplished inasmuch as it 
may be done in the person of thy lover. 
But I claim from thy fair hand a pledge 
of defiance which shall be left in the 
unbeliever’s camp as token of my pres- 
ence.” 

“ Brave warrior, true son of Islam, receive 
from my hand this scarf I have worn, by 
which I declare to thee my interest in thy 
welfare.” 

He took the scarf of green tissue which 
she offered him, and pressed it to his lips 
with words of fervent gratitude. 

“Behold our country!” she continued. 
“ Beyond that deep and flowering ravine 
arises the dark fortress of the Albaycin ; at 
its feet flows through vaulted bridges the 
warm-hued waters of the Darro ; and yon- 
der to our right like liquid silver winds the 
calm Xenil. O Tarfe ! my beloved, be- 
hold our country, and deplore with me its 
downfall. Nerve thy heart with its beauty, 
and let the true believers combat in unison, 
that the infidel invader may never possess 
its mosques and towers.” 

“ Fear not, dearest ; never shall the un- 
believing foe pollute with his miscreant 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


7 


tread the stronghold of our fathers, our 
ancient citadel.” 

“ Allah aid thy hand ! But now it wear- 
eth late, and I may not tarry longer. I 
pine and die, O Tarfe! within these gor- 
geous halls and incense-perfumed cham- 
bers. My soul is made for freedom and a 
proud and high career like thine, my war- 
rior ! I loathe the life I lead, and seem to 
breathe indeed the air of slavery. Farewell, 
beloved, the night approacheth ! ” 

With tender words he left her to return 
to the royal walls of the palace, whilst he 
betook himself to prepare for the morrow’s 
task. 

Night had withdrawn her legions, and 
the morn, like a vanquished foe, raised her 
pale face and smiled on the sleeping woods, 
and plains, and mountains. The birds, the 
feathered choristers, awoke and chanted 
their early notes of praise, the trees shook 
the dew like sleep from off their leaves, 
and the flowers unfolded their dreamy, 
odorous petals ; the streams went murmur- 
ing on, for even the tranquil night brings 
them no rest, and they heeded not that 
the opal Dawn had come out of the east, 


8 


A LEGEND OF THE 


and the black-robed Night had passed 
away with stately step, gathering her 
treasures, the golden, burning stars, and 
the cool zephyrs, and myriad clouds. It 
was day upon the Vega, and from out the 
Alcazar gate rode a warrior of stern and 
stately mien. His figure was strong and 
firmly knit ; his height, it seemed, some- 
what above the medium size. His visor was 
still raised and displayed the swarthy face 
and fierce, black eyes of Tarfe the Moor. 
Mounted on a noble steed, he rode with 
grave and determined air, till at length, 
when the morning sun was shining on the 
Avails and battlements which surrounded 
the Christian camp, he gave rein to his 
horse, and urged it with whip and spur to 
its utmost speed. As he approached the 
Christian lines he could perceive that all 
were astir ; pages and squires, polishing 
their masters’ armor or sharpening their 
flashing swords, sat without the tent, re- 
gardless of the early sun. 

Settling himself firmly in his saddle, he 
rode at full gallop within the lines, and 
with all his force hurled at the wooden 
pavilion which served as the dwelling of 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


9 


the Queen a dart to which was attached a 
scarf of greenish tissue. Then, wheeling 
around, he dashed from the camp with 
lightning speed. Scarce had he reached 
the plain when a hundred of the noblest 
knights sprang to their saddles and gal- 
loped forth in pursuit. They followed 
him to the very gates of the beleaguered 
city, but the Alcazar opened to receive him 
ere lance or sword could reach him. He 
scarcely slackened his steed till, pausing at 
one of the gates of the Alhambra, he threw 
his bridle to a page, and, dismounting, en- 
tered with proud and joyous step. 

In a hall adorned with barbaric splendor, 
golden vessels of burning incense, costly 
carvings, and draperies of silk and cloth of 
gold, he found the princess reclining on a 
divan. Kneeling before her, he exclaim- 
ed : 

“ Beauteous Zaida, beloved of my heart, 
thy lover has returned, but thy token 
waves upon the pavilion of the unbe- 
liver’s Queen ! ” 

“ Worthy art thou,” she answered with 
proud exultation, “ that the daughter of a 
hundred kings should hail thee as her lover. 


10 


A LEGEND OF THE 


Thou, thou shalt uphold the failing fortunes 
of our race.” 

“ Thy words, my Zaida, are to me as the 
nectar of the gods, as the songs of the dark- 
eyed houris. Unparelleled art thou in 
beauty, as in undaunted courage and devo- 
tion to thy country. I may not utter all 
that gratitude and love would teach me. 
Bright are thine eyes as the glowing dia- 
mond, fair art thou as the queenly rose. 
O fairest of thy race ! behold at thy feet 
Tarfe, thy slave and servant ! ” 

Say, rather, my true warrior, dear to 
my heart as the glory of our country. Il- 
lustrious art thou among the men of our 
race, and Zaida thanks thee for this noble 
proof of thy love.” 

Continuing thus to converse in the ex- 
travagant style of the East, they passed on 
to the presence of Boabdil, the last Moorish 
sovereign of Granada. 

Prominent among the pursuers of Tarfe 
was Hernan Perez del Pulgar, popularly 
known as “ Him of the mighty deeds,” one 
of the bravest and noblest of the chivalry 
of Spain. Finding the pursuit vain, he 
presented himself before the king. 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


II 


“ My liege,” he said, bending the knee, 

our chase hath been unsuccessful ; where- 
fore I have come to crave from thee a 
boon.” 

“ Name it, sir knight ; we know of no 
boon which can be refused to ‘ Him of the 
mighty deeds.’ ” 

“ My King, I ask the privilege of aveng- 
ing, in the manner which shall seem to me 
most fitting, this daring and audacious in- 
sult.” 

“ It shall be as thou wilt, Pulgar; but 
bear in mind that Granada is still in the 
hands of the infidels, and risk not thy life 
in rash encounters. We have need of arms 
like thine.” 

“ My sovereign, I thank thee,” cried 
Pulgar joyously ; “ thou shalt find me not 
unfaithful to thy trust. Permit that I with- 
draw, that all may be arranged.” 

‘‘Thou hast our leave,” replied the mo- 
narch, “and may God speed thee in thy 
mission ! ” 

Pulgar retired, but before returning to 
his tent he walked rapidly in the opposite 
direction for some distance, then paused, 
and seemed uncertain as to what course he 


12 


A LEGEND OF THE 


should pursue ; when forth from a tent, 
attended by one of her maidens, came 
a lady of tall and rather slight figure and 
graceful and elegant mien. Her small 
and shapely head and well-cut, beautiful 
features were shown to full advantage by 
the mantilla of lace which fell in heavy 
folds to her very feet. Pulgar started at 
the sight, and advanced eagerly. 

“ Lady,” he began, be not offended 
that thou seest me here; for Heaven hath 
surely granted me the boon of this brief 
meeting ere I depart.” 

Thou speakest of near departure, sir 
knight,” replied the lady. “ Whither 
goest thou ? ” 

Heardst thou not, fair lady, that a de- 
fying dart was hurled from the hands of an 
audacious Moor at the very pavilion of our 
Queen ? At nightfall I go hence, that this 
outrage may be avenged.” 

“ Nay, the tidings had not reached me. 
But wherefore,” she continued, do you 
valiant and redoubted knights, who have 
given to Spain such proofs of loyalty and 
valor, thus risk your lives in new and peril- 
ous encounters? ” 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


13 


“ Thou art kind, fair lady, who would 
thus dissuade us from our enterprise. Yet 
had I boldly dared to hope that from thy 
lips I should have heard approval of my 
venture.” 

She was silent, and Pulgar continued : 

“ Have I, indeed, been overbold in aught 
that I have said or done ? ” 

“ Not so, brave knight, for from the lips 
of woman should ever proceed the praise 
of valor and its inspiration. Yet do I lack 
the spirit which could urge to deeds of 
danger.” 

“ Knowest thou not, dear lady,” he 
proceeded in a lower tone, “ that knights, 
when riding forth to war or combat, ever 
seek their guerdon in the smiles of those they 
love ? Give me, I implore thee, some sign 
or token which I may bear upon my breast, 
the which, if, through storm and danger, 
I return to hear approval from thy lips, I 
may lay at thy dear feet ; or if, in Heaven’s 
wise decrees, this night should be my last, 
shall be sent hither to thee, dyed in the 
crimson life-blood of this heart that beats 
for thee.” 

“ I know not what to say, brave knight. 


A LEGEND OF THE 


14 

If words of mine may urge to glorious 
deed, thou hast them ; though, alas ! my 
coward heart would fain dissuade from 
scenes of strife and peril. Bear with thee, 
nevertheless, this crimson ribbon, as thou 
desirest some token, and with it my poor 
prayers that Heaven may defend thee.” 

For thy sweet sake,” he answered, “ I 
will now go forth to battle in a holy cause. 
More than I have said I dare not say till 
I return a victor ; and if that may not 
be — ” He paused, then added quickly: 
“ keep place for me within thy heart as 
one who was, who had been ever, thy true 
knight.” 

He was gone before her lips could frame 
some farewell words, and she retired, sad 
and troubled at the remembrance of his 
danger. Pulgar hastened to his tent, and, 
summoning a few of his tried and trusty 
comrades, he revealed to them his plan. 

“ By my honor as a Christian knight,” 
cried Aguilera, I deem it little short of 
madness. What folly hath possessed thy 
brain, Pulgar, to risk thy life and ours so 
thoughtlessly? ” 

“ Since when do Spanish nobles prefer 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


15 


life to honor?” answered Pulgar haughti- 

ly. 

“ We may bethink us of some other 
means,” added an older knight; “to ven- 
ture thus within the walls of the infidel 
stronghold were surely but a tempting of 
Providence.” 

“ I came not hither,” cried Pulgar with 
flashing eyes, “ to seek for counsel. To 
ye, my comrades, I have made known my 
resolve; wherefore ask I simply for your aid, 
and that ye bear me company unto the 
walls of the beleaguered city. Failing 
this, I go alone.” 

“ That shall never be, Del Pulgar,” cried 
the knights in eager chorus. “ The dan- 
ger that thou darest we shall also dare.” 

The time was fixed for that very night, 
therefore they all retired to hold them- 
selves in readiness ; and though each one 
knew that the golden sunlight of the 
morrow might shine upon his mangled 
corpse, not a man drew back, but girded 
himself with stern determination to do or 
die. Having secured a Moslem deserter 
as their guide, the little band directed 
their course across the dusky plain. The 


l6 A LEGEND OF THE 

night was bleak and stormy. The howling 
wind swept down in loud and boisterous 
gusts from the dwelling of the storm-king 
in the rugged fastnesses of the dark Sier- 
ras and over the desolate Vega. Not a 
star lit their way as noiselessly they sped 
on through the night and through the 
darkness, Pulgar and his thirteen compan- 
ions. The trees waved their dark branches 
as they stood silently along their paths 
like ghosts of midnight sentries, who ut- 
tered no challenge, demanded no password. 
At length they reached the gates of the 
Moorish city, and it was decided that but 
four of his companions should scale the 
walls with Del Pulgar. Followed, there- 
fore, by Bedmar, Aguilera, Montemayor, 
and Baena, they succeeded in effecting an 
entrance to the city. Drawing their man- 
tles closely around them and firmly grasp- 
ing their swords, they advanced through 
the quiet streets of the Moorish strong- 
hold, so famed in ^ong and story. The dim 
light of the lantern showed the quaint old 
buildings with their rare and curious carv- 
ings and graceful, curving minarets, while 
through the distance the clock in some 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


17 


public hall or mosque noted with solemn, 
warning strokes the flight of time. Be- 
fore the principal mosque they paused at a 
signal from their leader, and Pulgar drew 
from beneath his cloak a parchment scroll. 
Holding aloft the lantern, he showed to his 
astonished companions, to whom he had 
not confided the details of his plan, the 
words of the Ave Maria inscribed in blue 
letters on a dark-red ground, followed by 
a formal dedication of the spot to the wor- 
ship of God and the honor of Our Lady. 
With one accord they knelt and fervently 
repeated the old, old prayer first uttered 
in the dawning of the world’s history by 
heaven-taught, angel lips. 

“ My trusty comrades,” said Del Pulgar 
as they rose, “ Mary, Queen of the Angels, 
hath thus far been our shield and defence. 
She it was who prompted this deed, and 
unto her I give the glory of our enter- 
prise.” 

With these words he reverently kissed 
the scroll and fastened it securely, using 
his dagger as a nail, to the wooden carving 
of the principal entrance ; then taking from 
one of his companions a package of com- 


1 8 A LEGEND OF THE 

bustibles with which each had been pro- 
vided, he placed it close to the wood-work 
of another door, and, having ignited it, 
turned, followed by his comrades, from the 
spot. 

“ To the Alcariceria,* true and loyal 
knights ! ” he cried. ‘‘ For God, Our Lady, 
and for Spain ! ” 

They had almost reached it when they 
discovered that Montemayor, to whom the 
light had been confided, had through care- 
lessness suffered it to become extinguished, 
which so enraged Del Pulgar that he aimed 
a blow with his sword at the unlucky youth, 
but Bedmar interposed. 

“ Spare the youth! ” he cried, “ and by 
my faith, in briefer space than thou canst 
think, I will bring thither fire which shall 
ignite a thousand cities.” 

He rushed back to the burning mosque, 
already surrounded by an alarmed and ex- 
cited multitude, and, seizing a brand, has- 
tened to rejoin his comrades, whom he 
found engaged in a desperate encounter 
with the city guard. They succeeded with 

* The Alcariceria was a district of Granada entirely devot- 
ed to the manufacture of silk, and was considered one of the 
wealthiest portions of the city. 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


19 


great difficulty in reaching the point at 
which they had entered, fighting their 
way to the very last, and leaving the 
ground strewn with the corpses -of their 
opposers. Once without the walls, they 
mounted their steeds and soon regained 
the camp in safety, though much exhaust- 
ed and bearing many a wound. They 
were received with great joy, and ushered 
by an eager throng into the presence of 
their sovereigns. 

“ Advance, sir knight,” said the gracious 
Isabella. “ / He of the mighty deed’ hath 
this day surpassed his former feats in noble 
and generous daring. What guerdon can 
requite such an exploit as this?” 

“ Thy favor, gracious Queen, is full and 
ample guerdon for all true knights.” 

“ I mind me, gallant Pulgar,” said she, 
lowering her tone, “ of a boon thou didst 
crave some little time ago. Perchance 
thou knowest how thy Queen may recom- 
pense thy deed of heroic valor.” 

“ Aught that I can say, my sovereign, 
but poorly expresses Pulgar’s heartfelt 
gratitude,” he replied, catching the import 
of her words. 


20 


A LEGEND OF THE 


With one of her beaming smiles she dis- 
missed him to make way for his comrades 
in the gallant exploit. To each of them 
was granted a large portion of land in the 
newly conquered territory, and to Pulgar 
the additional privilege of being buried in 
the new cathedral which was to replace 
the mosque of Granada. The day passed 
in general rejoicing throughout the Chris- 
tian camp, while perchance the victor 
sought approval in the smiling eyes of his 
gentle and beloved Beatrix. 

Within the walls of the beleaguered city, 
from gate to gate, from tower to tower, 
consternation and disorder prevailed. The 
mosque was in ashes, the city threatened, 
and the streets and thoroughfares strewn 
with the corpses o^ its hapless defenders. 
The story of Pulgar and his four compan- 
ions was at first not generally believed, but 
many witnesses attested its truth. The 
King held council with his wisest and bra- 
vest warriors. Prominent among them 
was Tarfe, whom he had destined as the 
husband of the fair Zaida, his youngest sis- 
ter. Suddenly the doors were thrown open 
and admittance craved for the youthful 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


21 


princess. Alone and unattended, arrayed 
in her richest robes, she advanced, and, 
bending profoundly before the throne, she 
partly drew aside her veil and spoke thus : 

Most mighty lord and royal brother, 
this is no time for idle pomp or ceremony, 
and I, though a woman, dare intrude my- 
self upon thy councils, to ask what may be 
done when our very lives are threatened 
and the temple of our fathers laid in 
ashes.” 

“ Allah is Allah, and Mahomet is his 
prophet,” replied Boabdil. “ Bethink thee, 
sister, that it has been written in the Book 
of Fate such evil should befall the sons of 
Islam.” 

“ But have ye agreed as to how ye may 
avenge the wrong, and teach the insolent 
foe he warreth not with cravens ? ” 

“ Be calm, my sister, and hearken to my 
words,” replied the monarch. “We have 
been pleased to assemble in council the 
bravest of our warriors, lovers of the Mos- 
lem cause, and true followers of Mahomet ; 
therefore, I pray thee, concern not thyself 
with what thou canst not aid.” 

Forth from the group of warriors stepped 


22 


A LEGEND OF THE 


the gallant Tarfe. Prostrate before the 
King, he exclaimed : 

Most redoubted lord, and commander 
of the faithful, permit that I sustain this 
day the honor of the Moslem cause. I 
will ride forth and dare to single combat 
any of their bravest Christian knights.” 

“ Now Allah be praised ! ” cried the 
King. “ The council is ended. Warriors, 
ye may retire. Tarfe shall be the avenger 
of his people ! ” The monarch then with- 
drew, followed by the band of Moslems, 
and Tarfe was left alone in the presence of 
his beloved. 

Tarfe,” she said in a voice of thrilling 
sweetness, “ once more wouldst thou risk 
thy life for my sake in the cause of our 
well-loved country. Its glory hath not 
fallen, its fortunes are not lost, whilst such 
as thee are left unto Granada.” 

“ Even so, delight of my heart,” said he ; 
“ once more will I go forth to vent my 
hatred on our common foes through love 
of thee. If, indeed, I live to return, lily 
of thy people, then may I, with proud and 
rapturous joy, dare to claim that beauteous 
hand, my loved Zaida ; and if I die, trust 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


23 


me, peerless jewel of Granada, it shall be 
with honor.” 

“And the Koran promises thee, my war- 
rior, a paradise of lasting delights, where 
I will rejoin thee when the appointed hour 
hath come. But if thou returnest, this 
hand, this heart which loves thee e’en as 
it burns with hatred of our foes, shall be 
thine own, and together we shall recall the 
ancient glories of our race, and seek to in- 
spire each Islamite with fiery courage and » 
undying hate of the Christian name. Go ! I 
can send thee forth in such a cause with- 
out one tear.” 

“ But now, Zaida,” resumed her lover 
mournfully, “ now hath come the moment 
of farewell. It may, indeed, be written in 
the book of doom that I shall look upon 
thy face no more. O beauteous maiden, 
pearl of the dawn ! remember how I loved 
thee, should these lips ne’er speak again 
the eager tale of hope and passion. Fare- 
well I Thy lover goeth forth; victory or 
death is now before him.” 

He rushed from the room, and, hastening 
to the mosque, removed the scroll which 
had been placed there by the heroic Pul- 


24 


A LEGEND OF THE 


gar. In the broad glare .of noon he rode 
forth again from the Alcazar gateway. 
The sun was shining down with fierce 
and withering beams; not a ripple was 
upon the waters, nor a shiver among the 
trees. The dusty and unprotected Vega 
was a toilsome path on such a day, yet 
Tarfe seemed unconscious of the heat and 
dust. He wended his way slowly, and turn- 
ed now and again a backward glance on the 
dark walls and towers of the Alhambra, 
the gloomy fortress of the Albaycin, or fix- 
ed his gaze upon the waters of the Darro 
as he passed beside its flowering banks. 
Did some foreshadowings of his fate gleam 
like a prophecy from beyond the boundary 
that divides thought from matter? Were 
it so, there was none to whom he might 
communicate his thoughts, and he passed 
on across the sun-scorched Vega, till once 
more he reached the Christian lines. He 
rode slowly up and down before the walls, 
the now famous scroll of the Ave Maria 
affixed to his horse’s tail, and boldly de- 
fied any Christian knight to single combat. 
Intense excitement prevailed within the 
camp. Pulgar was absent, but every knight 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


25 


was eager to accept the challenge and sal- 
ly forth to combat with the Moor. But 
the King was deaf to all their entreaties. 

“ Spain has need of ye, my nobles,”, he 
declared — “ has need of stout hearts and 
strong arms in the final struggle. I forbid 
ye, one and all, to expose your lives in a 
quarrel so vain ; for well have ye proved 
your dauntless valor on many a hard-fought 
field.” 

From the group which surrounded the 
throne rushed forth a youth of slender 
and fragile form. 

“ My sovereign,” he cried imploringly, 
“ let me ride forth, and in Our Lady’s cause 
win my spurs of knighthood. I pray thee 
pardon my temerity ; but these brave 
knights, my liege, have fought and bled for 
Spain, and I — ” 

“ It may not be, brave youth — the boon 
I denied to stronger arms may not be 
thine ; but in thy request thou hast shown 
the warlike and undaunted spirit of thy 
house. Content thee, boy; a fitting occa- 
sion shall be given thee ere long to win 
thy spurs.” 

Reluctantly rising, the youth withdrew. 


26 


A LEGEND OF THE 


but, in place of submitting to the King’s 
command, he slipped away, and, donning 
his armor,rode hastily forth from the camp. 

“ Now Heaven forgive me ! ” he exclaim- 
ed, “ for my disobedience to our royal mas- 
ter, and aid me in the coming contest.” 

When Tarfe beheld the boyish figure of 
his adversary, he was at first inclined to 
refuse his challenge. 

“ Return, rash youth,” he said, “ and 
know that Tarfe maketh war on men.” 

“ Dost thou refuse my challenge, Moor ? 
Then will I brand thee as a coward and a 
braggart. Seize thy lance and stand upon 
thy guard, or, by my faith. I’ll charge 
upon thee.” 

Seeing that the boy was determined to 
encounter him, the Moor put his lance in 
rest, and soon the struggle began, and in 
the first course the Moor tottered in his 
saddle. The combat was long and severe. 
Lances were shivered, shields broken, and 
at length horses and riders rolled to- 
gether in the dust. Meanwhile, from the 
walls of the encampment its progress was 
watched with eager interest by the Chris- 
tian host. 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


27 


“ St. lago to the rescue ! . . . Holy Vir- 
gin ! he is wavering. . . . By my halidome, 
the Moor totters ! . . . Their blood flows 
fast ! . . . Queen of Heaven assist him ! . . . 
They fall ! they are unhorsed ! ” 

These and such like exclamations broke 
from the Christian lines, till the comba- 
tants rolled to the ground and were lost in 
a thick cloud of dust. A moment of sus- 
pense ensued, and then the youth was seen 
holding aloft the severed head of the Moor- 
ish warrior. A deafening cheer arose from 
the beholders, while the victor, holding 
the bleeding head and the scroll, which he 
had unfastened from the horse, rode slow- 
ly towards the lines. In the rejoicing 
which followed the King forgot his resent- 
ment at the disobedience of the youth. 

“ Forgive him,” urged the Queen — “ for- 
give the unknown knight who hath this 
day, in Our Lady’s honor, braved even the 
displeasure of his king.” 

“ He is forgiven,” replied the monarch ; 
“ such deed as his had wiped away a hun- 
dred faults. Advance, brave champion,” 
he continued, as the youth appeared amid 
the enthusiastic plaudits of the crowd. 


28 


A LEGEND OF THE 


“ Permit us to behold the conqueror in a 
noble fray.” 

He raised his visor and disclosed the 
boyish features of De la Vega, the King’s 
favorite page. Then burst from the multi- 
tude a thunder of applause — 

“ The stormy cheer man gives to Glory on her high career,” 

that loud, continuous, and tumultuous ap- 
plause which thrills the heart and stirs the 
blood ; sounds which the treacherous wind 
wafted over the Vega’s plain to the walls 
of the Moorish city. 

“ Pardon, my liege, pardon ! ” murmured 
the youth, kneeling at the feet of the King 
with the trophies of his victory. 

“Thou art pardoned, gallant youth!” 
replied the King. “ The blood of yonder 
Moor hath washed away even fault so grave 
as disobedience to our royal word. To-, 
morrow, after sunrise, thou shalt receive 
the spurs of knighthood.” 

Queen Isabella extended her hand for 
him to kiss. 

“ Receive, brave descendant of a valiant 
race, the thanks of thy Queen” ; and she 
added, unfastening a jewelled brooch from 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


29 


her robe : “ Wear this poor bauble in re- 
membrance of thy first combat in a glo- 
rious cause.” 

He kissed her hand, murmuring some 
broken words of gratitude. 

‘‘Tell me, fair youth,” she continued, 
smiling, “ what damsel in our train may 
boast allegiance from so true a knight as 
thou hast proved thyself?” 

“ Thus far, my sovereign,” he replied, 
“ I combat in the cause of Mary, Mother 
of God ; none other claims my devoirs.” 

“ A high and holy cause is thine,” said 
Isabella, deeply touched ; “ may she re- 
quite thee for thy heroic espousal of her 
cause to-day ! ” 

Scarcely had the early morning sun ap- 
peared above the horizon when a vast as- 
semblage of bishops and clergy, knights 
and ladies, pages and esquires, were gath- 
ered together to witness the investiture 
of the Christian champion with the order 
of knighthood. Amid a breathless silence, 
he advanced to the foot of the throne, and 
when Ferdinand, proclaiming him a knight, 
exclaimed, “ Arise, Sir Garcilaso de la 
Vega! the faithful, brave, and fortunate,” 


30 


A LEGEND OF THE 


renewed acclamations rent the air, while 
nobles and ladies pressed eagerly forward to 
greet him under his new and well-won title. 

It was night again in the Moorish city; 
the wind was murmuring and sighing in 
the trees, the plain, was still and cold, the 
placid rivers flowed black and drear, and 
the jewels in Night’s royal mantle appeared 
slowly, one by one, as the wan twilight 
faded. Afar o’er the dark fortress of the 
Albaycin the moon was slowly rising to 
her chair of regal state, just one faint por- 
tion visible from behind the envious clouds. 
Amid the odorous richness of the flowers, 
in the balmy freshness of the evening air, 
stood Zaida, awaiting the return of her va- 
liant lover. Did no whisper come through 
the sighing trees to warn her that he for 
whom she waited would come no more ? 
At last she heard, through the still night 
air, the tramping of horses, and with an 
eager, feverish impatience she waited, while 
through the dense darkness she could hear 
the sound come nearer and nearer. She 
knew not that they were bearing to her 
anxious, hoping heart the tidings that 
should bid it hope no more. Through 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


31 


the quiet streets they bore her lover, who 
had gone forth at noon with the fiery heart 
of youth burning with hatred towards the 
people of God, enshrouded in more than 
Egyptian darkness, and had perished thus 
in an unholy cause. As they passed within 
the encircling battlements of the Alhambra, 
the moon emerged through the affrighted 
clouds, from behind the buttressed tower, 
and climbed, with majestic step, to her 
throne of sovereignty over the marshalled 
legions of the purple night. Zaida hastily 
entered the palace, and stood awaiting her 
lover at the head of the broad, marble 
staircase, leading to the great hall of the 
Alhambra. She paused in the shadow 
of an oriel window, through which the 
moon, unfettered by the latticed bars, 
shed its pale beams on her expectant face, 
on the dark stairway,- the mail-clad forms 
advancing, and on the heavy velvet pall 
which covered a funeral bier. With one 
wild cry of anguish she sprang forward. 

Who bear ye with such pomp and hon- 
or ? ” cried she, addressing the chief of 
the band. “ What hero has fallen ? What 
prince is no more? 


32 


A LEGEND OF THE 


The moonbeams fell softly, pityingly 
around her as the chief replied: “We 
bear to the presence of the King the body 
of the illustrious Tarfe.” 

They passed on, not recognizing the 
Princess; but she detained them not, re- 
maining silent and motionless as a statue. 
After a moment she followed them into 
the presence of the King, and, when the 
corpse was laid at his feet, she threw her- 
self upon it and broke into a storm of pas- 
sionate wailing. 

“ Star of thy race, thou art set ; thy 
light is quenched in the darkness of death, 
and woe is me that I, thy beloved, may 
not follow thee beyond the grave ! This, 
then, is our meeting, Tarfe, my beloved ! 
Thy Zaida, who would have been thy 
bride, mourns thee in anguish and desola- 
tion. Dost thou not hear ? Zaida speaks V* 

But, alas ! the ears that had heard with 
such joy her words of love were closed to 
all earthly sounds, and the lips that had 
breathed such passionate devotion would 
open no more on earth. She might not 
even gaze on the familiar features, even 
when Death, the sternest of conquerors. 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


33 


had chained them to fixed and absolute 
repose. She dared not draw aside the pall 
which mercifully concealed the headless 
trunk of her hapless lover. They drew 
her gently away from the corpse of him 
who had passed for ever out of her life 
into the unbroken silence of the grave. 
Thus were these two hearts, which a 
bond of love, of passionate hatred for their 
common foe, and of deep devotion to 
their country, had united so closely, part- 
ed now for ever “ far as death severs life.” 
Love and hatred, and the thousand mys- 
teries of the human heart, were over for 
him, and his arm of might would strike no 
more its potent blow in an unholy cause. 
Henceforward Zaida appeared not in coun- 
cil or at festival. Sometimes in the dim 
hour of twilight she was seen, in heavy 
robes of mourning, wandering through the 
flowering paths of her favorite gardens, re- 
calling, perchance, his words of passionate 
tenderness and unholy resentment ; re- 
flecting, it may be, with remorseful pity, 
that her indomitable pride and fiery ha- 
tred of the Christian cause had urged him 
to his doom. Communing thus with the 


34 


A LEGEND OF THE 


past, gazing on the towers and streams of 
her beloved Granada, only as links which 
bound her to departed joys, she mourned 
no more the downfall of her country, nor 
dreamed bright dreams of the regeneration 
of her race. Her thoughts, her hopes, ever 
pointed onward through the misty, uncer- 
tain years to what her vague and shadowy 
belief showed her as the sunrise land of 
infinite joy, where, on the flowering plains 
of the Prophet’s Paradise, the lover of her 
youth awaited her, the warrior to whom 
the Koran promised that immortal bliss. 
Alas ! when even the visions of the world 
above are phantoms like unto the pale, 
brief joys that lure our hearts while here 
below. Alas ! when ’tis but the Koran’s 
fancied Paradise of sensual delights that 
deludes the weary watcher. 

On the same night that witnessed Zai- 
da’s passionate grief Del Pulgar breathed 
his vows of love in the tender moonlight 
with the waving shadows of the trees be- 
neath the lovers’ feet. 

“ Sweet lady,” he whispered, “ thou 
who hast cheered me through the stormy 
path of war, hear the prayer of thine un- 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


35 


worthy knight. Bind thyself to me, I pray 
thee, by true and lasting ties, that when 
thy soldier goes forth again to battle the 
thought of thee may cheer him through its 
perils. Say, what shall be his fate, gentle 
lady of my heart ? ” 

She answered not, and he continued: 

“The King and Queen consent that I 
should urge my suit ; therefore, wilt thou 
deny me ? Speak but a word, beloved ! 
Tell me, wilt thou share my fate and be a 
warrior’s bride ? ” 

“ Ay,” she replied with sudden courage. 
“ I will be thy bride — thine, through joy 
and sorrow, till death do us part.” 

Then even the attendant maiden who 
stood apart perceived by the bright moon- 
light the glow of joy which lit the war- 
rior’s face. Bending low, he touched her 
fingers with his lips, as he answered sol- 
emnly : 

“ O thou to whom my vows are paid, 
may Heaven aid me to prove worthy of thy 
faith and love ! ” 

The moon smiled and cast a flood of 
glory round them like the joy which fill - 
ed their hearts ; the night-wind whispered 


36 


A LEGEND OF THE 


through the trees, as the greetings of long- 
lost dear ones, and the stars seemed to glow 
and burn in the night’s purple mantle, as 
the lovers lingered, exchanging vows which 
bound them in endless union. Even thus 
shone the radiant moon on the Moorish 
maiden’s solemn tryst with her cold, dead 
lover, as on the glowing looks and sunny 
smiles of the Christian damsel’s glad betro- 
thal ; gleaming down with equal light on 
parting and meeting, on the hopeless, de- 
spairing grief of the one, and the hopeful, 
loving joy of the other. 

One month later the nuptials of Her- 
nan Perez del Pulgar with the fair and 
gentle lady of his choice were celebrated 
with great splendor and rejoicing, in all the 
pomp and magnificence of the olden time ; 
and in the joy of the hour was forgotten, 
for a brief season, the final, hard-fought 
struggle which was to wrest for ever the 
kingdom of Granada from the power of the 
Moors, and crowri the Spanish arms with 
lasting honor. 

Down through the long night of the 
ages tradition has preserved the legend 
of the Ave Maria ^ and in the cabins of 


MOORISH WARS IN SPAIN. 


37 


the peasantry, or by the midnight watch- 
fires of the muleteers, is told or chanted 
in rude verse the tale of how the gal- 
lant Pulgar fired by night the ancient 
Moorish mosque, and affixed thereto the 
parchment scroll with the ever-blessed 
words of the Ave Maria, In those days 
of chivalry and great exploit each manly 
heart delighted in proclaiming as his no- 
blest boast his unwavering loyalty to the 
grand old Church, to its Master and Foun- 
der, Jesus Christ, and his Virgin Mother, 
the Queen of men and angels. In the 
battle's fiercest storm, or in presence of 
their most redoubted foe, the thought of 
the loved Madonna would nerve their hearts 
and arms, while from the bearded lips of 
war-worn soldiers would fall the gentle 
accents of the Ave Maria. O glorious 
chivalry of Spain ! across the dark and 
tempestuous waves of the centuries, could 
ye behold how infidel and unbelievers, less 
earnest and less knightly than your ancient 
Moslem foe, seek to banish from Spanish 
hearts and Spanish lips the name ye once 
revered of Mary, Queen of Heaven, and 
few advance, as ye had done, to break a 


38 A LEGEND OF SPAIN. 

\ 

lance in cause so holy. May other tongues 
and pens, as we do now, record in centu- 
ries to come the triumphs of the Ave 
Maria ! 



DONNA DOLORES 






W.i\' 


A 


/ 

» 






DONNA DOLORES. 


It is morning at Cordova, and the old 
town is all alive with the bustle and excite- 
ment which, in those bygone ages, was al- 
ways so picturesque ; for hither and thither 
in the commerce of daily life passed men 
and women whom now, indeed, we see in 
galleries of old paintings, but meet no 
more, with their graceful and poetic cos- 
tumes, in the broad glare of commonplace 
existence. 

On this morning in the past the city was 
aglow with the warmth and exhilaration 
of a sunny day in early summer, dreaming 
not of a later time when upon its principal 
square would rise, as a trophy of victory, 
the great mosque of Abderahman, with its 
countless minarets, its wonderful architec- 
ture, and its forest of columns and light 
3 


4 


DONNA DOLORES. 


shafts of Greco-Arabic mould, composed 
of jasper, porphyry, various colored breccia, 
and other precious marbles ; its mosaics of 
tinted crystal, its verses of the Koran, its 
arches and arabesques and innumerable 
Moorish devices, and above all the glitter- 
ing crescent. 

But in this early part of the eighth cen- 
tury there was no trace of that marvellous 
pile, in later years the pride of the caliphs. 
The streets were, however, narrow and ir- 
regular, winding away into dim and sha- 
dowy nooks, or branching out into broad 
squares or esplanades,upon which churches 
or convents stood, with their dim cloisters 
and patios perfumed with the white blos- 
soms of countless orange-trees. 

Morning was softly resting on all things, 
having opened every flower-cup, watered it 
with pearly dew-drops, smoothed out the 
dark-green leaves, despatched the zephyrs 
to awaken the grasses and blow gentle 
breaths among them ; while the trees, in 
their efforts to shake off the oppressiveness 
of night and sleep, had scattered over the 
earth aromatic showers of orange and cit- 
ron and other Oriental blossoms. 


DONNA DOLORES. 


5 


The sun, too, was abroad, that far-famed 
and oft-quoted driver in the chariot of gold, 
who passes round the world among the re- 
gions of the upper air, and, at his mounting 
and descending, pours forth recklessly the 
treasures which he bears with him, purple 
and crimson, opal and violet, amber and 
pink, which fall among the clouds and re- 
flect beautiful hues on the world beneath. 
At morning, indeed, he issues first in man- 
tle of gray, which presently throwing aside, 
he displays his brightness. Thus over the 
Moorish town mist-shadowed dawn had 
passed, and the lavish gold was every- 
where predominant. 

On the bridge leading over the Guadal- 
quivir to Ecija was a young Spanish girl 
richly dowered with the famous beauty of 
her race. Her eyes were large and dark, 
soft and liquid, with that lustrous languor, 
if we may use the term, which is peculiar 
to the Castilian face, and owes, perhaps, 
something of its brilliancy to the Moor- 
ish and Oriental admixture in the various 
races of Spain. Her forehead was rather 
broad than high, her face oval, save that 
the chin, though delicately curved, was 


6 


DONNA DOLORES. 


slightly pointed, marring the perfect con- 
tour. Her expression was quick, spark- 
ling, and intelligent, flashing a moment, in 
true Spanish fashion, on the object of its 
regard, and as speedily withdrawn. Her 
hair was fair where the mantilla shows 
it, of the bright golden shade usual in 
that rare phenomenon, a Spanish blonde. 
In the grace and pliancy of her figure, 
the exceeding smallness of her feet and 
hands, no less than in the perfection of 
feature we have described, she was a fine 
type of that national beauty which poet 
and troubadour alike have sung, and 
with which, notwithstanding, we so rarely 
meet in the streets of the various Spanish 
cities. 

The costume of her day was particularly 
adapted to bring out the beauty of her 
Castilian face. She wore a loose robe or 
flowing garment of amber-colored taffeta, 
of which the rich draperies mingled grace- 
fully with the long lace mantilla covering 
her head and falling softly to her feet. Her 
neck was adorned with a circlet of twisted 
pearls and gold ; her hair beneath the man- 
tilla was fastened with a similar one, which 


DONNA DOLORES. 


7 


peeped through the lace and caught the 
sunlight. 

She leaned over an arch of the bridge 
and gazed upon the water, as if counting 
the golden ripples on the Guadalquivir’s 
smooth breast. Thoughtfully her eyes wan- 
dered afar off, following into the distance 
its sinuous windings, and seeming to ponder 
on its destination. Turning to her atten- 
dant, a bright-eyed, sunburnt Andalusian 
peasant, she said in a low, musical voice : 

“ See yon bark, my Sancha ; it riseth on 
the wave and again dippeth down into the 
cool water, and on and away past many 
goodly shores.’* 

“ It seemeth heavily laden,” replied the 
maid, “and, I would suppose, bears mer- 
chandise from distant lands.” 

“ Sancha,” said Donna Lola, half 
dreamily, already forgetting the bark and 
its trackless course, “ what mournful doom 
hath fallen on our country that from end 
to end the Moslems devastate her fields 
and vineyards ! ” 

“ May God deliver us from their rage,” 
replied the attendant, “ and devote them 
to the dark fate they merit I ” 


8 


DONNA DOLORES. 


“ And yet,” said Donna Lola softly, “ I 
doubt me not, among them are loyal and 
knightly hearts, and 1 confess to thee, good 
Sancha, I do pity them in their unbelief.” 

Whom dost thou pity, fair senorita?” 
asked a voice beside her. “ It were well 
worth suffering hardship were such com- 
passion its guerdon.” 

“ Nay, Don Ruy, thou didst fright me,” 
said the lady, perceiving that a knight 
in arms stood before her, while at the 
same time she offered him her hand, to 
which, after the fashion of the times, he 
lightly pressed his lips. 

“ Fright thee, fair lady ? Nay, what fur- 
ther 'from my thoughts than to cause thee 
terror ! Wherefore didst thou fear ? ” 

“ I bethought me,” said the lady, draw- 
ing her mantilla rather coquettishly over 
jthe greater portion of her face, of the 
wandering Moors, whom, we are told, are 
ever on the watch for Christian captives. 
But whence art thou come, sir knight, 
and wherefore ?” 

“ Whence ? From the palace, lady. 
Wherefore, dost thou ask ? I have come 
thither to hold speech with Donna Dolores, 


DONNA DOLORES. 


9 


if, indeed, in her scorn or trifling, she 
send me not hence.” 

“ Donna Lola’s thoughts are not of 
thee,” she answered carelessly, “but dwell 
rather on the fortunes of the Moors.” 

“And wilt thou now, sweet dreamer, 
rest them an instant on the fortunes of a 
Christian, the which, as thou knowest, lie 
at thy dainty feet? It is thine to raise or 
crush them in the dust, and this the place 
and hour.” 

“ Bethink thee, sir knight, that the 
place and hour may, in my humble esteem, 
be unseasonable ; wherefore I will pray 
thee to urge not upon me thy fortunes.” 

“ Forgive the unseemly haste, but I be- 
seech thee hear me ; for to-night, it is 
whispered, the Moslems will assail the 
town, and each warrior in his place must 
be the rampart that shall hold them back. 
This feeble portion of that bulwark, then, 
most humbly craves that thou inspire a 
needed strength.’’ 

“ Thou goest to face the enemy ! ” cried 
the lady, turning to him with blanched 
face and tear-moistened eyes. “ The foe are 
at our walls, and thou wilt be in peril ! ” 


10 


DONNA DOLORES. 


Ay, each warrior shall be in peril,” 
said the knight, watching her keenly ; 
“ but is this aught to thee? Carest thou 
for my danger? ” 

She turned her head away to conceal 
a tear or two that stained her cheeks, and 
he continued his suit. 

“If thou fearest for me, lady — if thou 
Avouldst grieve for my fall, I pray thee 
give me courage. One boon thou canst 
bestow which will inspire my heart with 
strength and valor worthy of our cause. 
Wilt thou grant it, lady ? ” he said, lower- 
ing his voice and bending forward. 

“ I possess not the necromancer’s art, 
good knight,” said Lola, with downcast 
eyes, “ and I guess not thy meaning. If 
boon thou cravest, I pray thee name it.” 

“ Thou guessest not my meaning — thou 
knowest not the boon I crave ? A heart, 
then, lady, and that heart thine.” 

“ Methinks thou art not over-modest 
in thy requests,” said Lola coquettishly, 
though her cheeks were dyed with crim- 
son and her head turned from him. “ Hast 
aught else for which thou cravest ? ” 

“ Ay,” cried the warrior, “ the heart I 


DONNA DOLORES. 


11 


fain would have should not be empty, but 
filled, I would e’en hope, with love, and 
accompanied by another gift — that of thy 
hand, O lady of my heart !" 

The Guadalquivir flowed on calmly, the 
morning sun gilded the fair panorama of 
the quaint old city and the noiseless river, 
while the Donna Dolores, famed for her 
beauty throughout the land, plighted her 
faith to Don Ruy Garcia de Salas, who 
was likewise much lauded for valor and 
courtly bearing. 

But the great business of the hour 
drove the consideration of private loves 
and hopes and hates out of every mind, and 
hearts were trampled under the iron car of 
the conqueror Duty. At the palace of the 
Christian governor bands of armed men 
hastened in and out, hither and thither. 
The clank of arms and the tread of mail- 
clad knights resounded on the marble 
stairs or in the halls where high council 
was held as to the city’s defence. Full of 
pride in their own prowess, and dreading 
naught from the foes without, the warriors 
gathered round their chief, Pelistes, who, 
weary and worn with his long struggle. 


12 


DONNA DOLORES. 


had returned from fields of high emprise 
to defend the Christian cause in Cordova. 
Magued, who was besieging the city, ap- 
parently dismayed by the height of the 
walls and the strength of the towers and 
fortresses, had towards evening drawn 
off his troops. Elated by this wonderful 
deliverance, the night was spent in joy 
and festivity. 

It was, however, deemed advisable to 
keep an armed band of warriors within the 
palace, and with them, after a short inter- 
view with his betrothed, Don Ruy took 
his place. 

In a somewhat retired street stood one 
of the most beautiful mansions or palaces 
of the town, of which the patio was filled 
with the choicest and most fragrant flowers, 
and the grated windows were heavily draped 
with satin and brocaded velvet and opened 
on gilded balconies. For a moment Don- 
na Lola appeared to enjoy the fresh night 
breeze, then, re-entering, betook herself to 
prayer. A nameless foreboding, a haunt- 
ing fear of evil, prevented her from sleep- 
ing, and she remained keeping her vigil 
alone. 


DONNA DOLORES. 


13 


Some time after midnight a fearful tu- 
mult rose in the streets without, and Don- 
na Lolo’s heart beat high with fear and 
anxiety. The tumult increased ; the noise 
of armed men came nearer and nearer; the 
streets seemed crowded with throngs of 
excited people. The sound of combat, too, 
could be heard in the public squares and 
thoroughfares, and in the moments of 
awful suspense that followed Donna Lola 
prayed a voiceless prayer, her heart im- 
ploring protection of her God and of the 
Madonna. Treachery had been at work, 
and the Moors had entered the city by an 
unprotected passage. 

Panting with rage and hatred for the 
Christians, Magued and his fierce crew 
came rushing through the dark, deserted 
streets of this quiet quarter of the town. 
Into the houses they burst like a wild tor- 
nado, pillaging, sacking, burning. As one 
in an awful dream> Donna Lola remained 
with clasped hands awaiting her fate. It 
had seemed to come upon her suddenly; 
and suddenly now, too, the room was filled 
with Moorish warriors. Sancha clung 
trembling to her mistress’ side, with tears 


14 


DONNA DOLORES. 


streaming from her eyes, while she buried 
her face in her lady’s mantle. Like a sta- 
tue of marble, frozen by terror, stood Don- 
na Lola, no tears falling on her cheeks, no 
words of prayer or entreaty coming from 
her lips, her eyes fixed with a stony stare 
of horror upon the conquerors of her native 
Cordova, at whose fierce beck was now her 
life or freedom. 

A Moor with a gentler and more noble 
face, complexion little darker than the 
olive-color of the Spaniards, and with an 
air of stern command about him, had fixed 
compassionate eyes upon the poor young 
creature so utterly at their mercy. Catch- 
ing his eye, Donna Lola seemed to awake 
from her stupor, and with a hasty move- 
ment threw herself sobbing at his feet, one 
word only upon her lips — “ Mercy ! ” 

The Moor glanced pityingly down at 
her, but in an instant life and conscious- 
ness faded from her face, and she fell 
senseless. He raised and supported her 
with one arm, while with the other he 
grasped his cimeter as if in defiance. A 
Moor fiercer and darker than most of his 
companions now approached, and demand- 


DONNA DOLORES. 


15 


ed by what right Yusef had claimed the cap- 
tive. As their dispute waxed higher and 
higher, a man suddenly appeared at the door. 
His presence produced a marked effect ; 
the soldiers ceased from their plunder and 
Yusef and his comrade from their dispute. 
The cause of the latter was briefly ex- 
plained to him, and after a few moments’ 
talk, Magued — for it was, indeed, the rene- 
gade general — reluctantly decided in favor 
of Yusef, who was no favorite with him. 
Moreover, the beauty of the lady had at- 
tracted his attention, and he might have 
claimed her for himself; but Yusef was 
too high in favor with the caliph and too 
valuable a supporter of the Moorish cause 
to be offended ; so, with as good grace as 
possible, Magued granted him the prize he 
desired, and, furthermore, the permission 
to withdraw from the city and bring his 
captive to a place of safety far from the 
present scenes of strife and bloodshed. 

Hastily did Yusef mount his horse and 
hasten towards the city’s gates, bearing 
Donna Lola, still senseless, before him on 
his steed. When they had reached the 
plain outside the walls, he placed her in 


l6 DONNA DOLORES. 

a gorgeously-ornamented litter which he 
caused to be prepared, and, followed by a 
train of horsemen, began his course to- 
wards Granada. In profound silence they 
rode over the gray and sandy soil, with its 
scanty vegetation and solitary palm-trees, 
and beside the swift and silent river, whose 
windings Donna Lola had watched on that 
morning, that seemed so far off now, when 
her faith was plighted. 

From time to time Yusef rode up to 
the litter, and, drawing the curtains, en- 
quired after the comfort of his fair cap- 
tive, who sat, pale, listless, and despond- 
ent, seeming to pay little heed to his 
courteous speeches. He strove to allay 
her fears, to console her in her sadness, 
but to her the fact remained, she was a 
captive in the hands of her country’s foe, 
and what availed it *that he whispered 
words of hope. 

Now and again the sterile plain of the 
Guadalquivir was brightened into what 
might be called oases, where luxuriant 
vegetation, clusters of pomegranate, fig, 
and orange trees made the succeeding 
dreariness more barren and desolate. 


DONNA DOLORES. 


17 


Meantime, within. Cordova’s walls a 
handful of Christian knights, with their 
brave leader, Pelistes, had retired to the 
Convent of St. George, where they en- 
trenched themselves, defying the foe, who 
remained masters of the town. When 
night of the second day came, lights shone 
out from every window of the old abbey, 
presenting thus to the still midnight of 
the Spanish town a beautiful and impos- 
ing picture. The enemy had desisted from 
their fierce assault upon the convent, and 
were sleeping with the stars keeping watch 
over them, and above their heads, as a 
canopy, the deep, blue sky, which had 
beheld unmoved their dreadful carnage. 
Turbaned sentinels, with gleaming cime- 
ters, walked upon the walls, or pursued 
their dreary march up and down the silent 
streets, or across the bridge that divided 
the two portions of the town, and under 
the arches of which the Guadalquivir was 
rushing on, as cold and dark as that gulf 
which alike swallows up the brave and 
fair, the great and good. 

Within the convent many of the Chris- 
tian soldiers were at rest, lying upon their 


DONNA DOLORES. 


I8 

arms dreaming of blood-red battle-fields 
or homes of peace. But amongst those 
who kept stern vigil for the day that 
dawned was Don Ruy Garcia de Salas, who 
had wandered all day long, notwithstand- 
ing the deadly peril, from street to street, 
from house to house, from square to 
square, seeking the one whom he loved 
and had lost. He had returned weary 
and dejected when hope had fled and he 
had been convinced that she had either 
perished or been carried off by the Moors, 
an opinion in which he was confirmed by 
the account given of the capture of her 
mistress by Sancha, who had escaped, she 
knew not how, and found refuge in the 
convent. His dream of joy, which, with 
delusive light, had lured him on to strug- 
gle so bravely for life, had faded, and 
drearily Don Ruy kept his watch alone 
and silent. Grief availed not, hope was 
dead, despair had grasped the sceptre, and 
the soldier wept. Burning tears fell upon 
the blade he wielded so nobly for . Spain, 
tears which that brave heart could no lon- 
ger control. 

The cold dawn began to break in the 


DONNA DOLORES. 


19 


east, casting faint shimmering brightness 
over the swift-flowing Guadalquivir, dimly 
lighting the streets and houses, and wak- 
ing the Moors who slept without from 
their deep slumber. But of what avail to 
him was the light of another day? True, 
he must fight — fight to defend the grand 
old city that had given him birth — but 
happiness was a vanished dream, joy the 
phantom of a phantom. One thing re- 
mained — glory, the thirst for high emprise 
which death alone can quench in the heart 
of a Spanish noble; and if his years of 
search should prove unavailing, he would 
live to avenge her death and deal out 
justice to his lady’s murderer. 

The day grew apace, and stern work, 
unceasing toil, might well have driven 
haunting thoughts from the warrior’s 
troubled breast. But not so ; stronger 
and stronger grew his craving, fiercer and 
fiercer his longing to discover the fate of 
his gentle Dolores ; but danger threatened 
the noble Pelistes, threatened every faith- 
ful Christian knight who remained true to 
his colors ; and where danger was. there 
Don Ruy must remain. 


20 


DONNA DOLORES. 


Meantime, the lady of his love was 
borne past the region of the Guadalquivir, 
and on to the Vega de Granada, that fair- 
est and most charming of plains, which the 
dark sierras guard so protectingly, and 
the Darro and Xenil water into such luxu- 
riance. Suddenly the whole magnificent 
panorama burst upon Lola’s sight. The 
Antequeruela, and Alhambra, with its 
Torres Bermujas; the Albaycin, standing 
in stern grandeur on its rocky heights ; 
the city of Granada, with its quaint 
Arabic character, and without the whole 
range of the Sierra Nevada overtopped by 
the peak of Mulhacen, glowing now with 
innumerable colors, which the sunset 
lends to the mountain-crests in these re- 
gions, producing a rare and marvellous 
effect. 

As they approached Granada, Yusef 
rode up and ordered the litter-bearers to 
set down their burden. Drawing the cur- 
tains, he addressed Donna Lola once more : 

“ Fair sultana, whose peers among the 
lovliest maidens of thy race I have not 
seen, Yusef is thy slave and servant.” 

“ Thou mockest me with thy idle 


DONNA DOLORES. 


21 


speech, proud Moslem,” answered Lola, in 
a sad and gentle voice. “ I am thy help- 
less captive.” 

“ Nay, lady, say not so. Brighter are 
thine eyes than the jewels from the mine ; 
paler thy cheek than the foam of the 
wave ; sweeter thy smile than that of the 
houri ; and Yusef repeats he is thy slave.” 

Tears flowed down the maiden’s cheeks 
as she replied : 

“ Forbear, O warrior ! thy flattering 
words. Hope hath abandoned me, and 
despair hath seized upon my soul.” 

Cease thy tears, sultana,” said the 
Moor; “Yusef loves thee and will harm 
thee not.” 

Silently the captive bowed her head 
and answered not a word. 

“ O lady !” cried the warrior, in a voice 
as musical as the courtliest of Christian 
‘knights, “ raise thy fair head, which droop- 
eth now in anguish ; gaze upon this scene 
of glory. Behold the deep gold and crim- 
son of the sunset ; see its light abroad upon 
these beauteous streams, crowning the glo- 
rious palace of our kings, brightening the 
dark Albaycin, resting upon the city, of 


22 


DONNA DOLORES. 


which fame hath loudly spoken. Without 
there is deadly peril, strife and anarchy 
prevail ; within there is peace and safety.” 

He paused, and continued in a lower 
tone : 

“ Before thee, lady, Yusef pleads. See, 
he kneels and sues for thy hand. He can 
give thee towers and fortresses, protect 
thee from evil and harm. Thy brow shall 
be bound with circlets of the finest gold 
and rarest jewels ; the snow-white pearl, 
the sea-green emerald, the blood-red ruby, 
the pale opal, the yellow topaz, and the 
sovereign diamond — all shall be thine own. 
Rare aromatics, sweet-breathed incense shall 
perfume the air around thee. Costly tissues 
from far-off shores, cloth of gold and sil- 
ver, purple Tyrian stuffs, velvet, and bro- 
cade, shall be thy garments. Gardens shall 
stretch before thee, wherein thy path shall 
lie among the gorgeous plants and blossoms 
of our fervid sky. In lordly halls thou shalt 
be the queen, with countless slaves to wait 
upon thy steps, and Yusef first among 
them. Thou shalt reign alone, thy empire 
undisputed, and he thy devoted servant.” 

Nay, Moor, thy speech is wild and 


DONNA DOLORES. 


23 


vain,” said Lola wearily. Wherefore 
speak to me of gold and gems and pearl, 
when I mourn for homes and loves in fair 
and sad Leon ? Why tell me of Granada’s 
joys, when my heart hath sped over the 
plains to where Cordova lieth under the 
foeman’s cruel sway? ” 

“ But bethink thee, sultana,” urged the 
Moor ; “ Granada boasts of gardens, walks, 
and sparkling fountains, gorgeous magnifi- 
cence, to which Cordova hath ever been 
a stranger. Wherefore wilt thou return 
where war and danger lurk? Here peace and 
safety, joy and love, shall be thy portion.” 

But if I tell thee, warrior,” cried Donna 
Lola, bending eagerly forward with a sud- 
den gleam of hope, “ that love hath bright- 
ened sad Cordova into splendor beyond 
that of the fairest cities — into a region of 
delight surpassing the Elysian Fields of the 
Koran’s paradise ? ” 

“Thou lovest, lady,” said the Moor wist- 
fully — “ lovest one without thy household 
band — lovest a Christian warrior ? ” 

“ Even so, O Moslem! ” cried the lady 
earnestly ; “ and yet thou wouldst retain 
me here, far from that light which heaven 


24 


DONNA DOLORES. 


vouchsafes us here below ; wouldst offer 
me Granada and its towers and streets of 
beauty, gold, and the cheerless sparkle of 
the ocean gems, for a heart and the warm 
light of eyes most dear.” 

“ Then my love and hope, indeed, are 
vain,” said the Moor mournfully. “ Oh ! 
wherefore, lady of the lustrous eyes, hath 
the Moslem’s evil star brought him within 
their radiance — wherefore thus in vain hath 
the beauty of thy face stricken the heart 
of Islam’s son ? Thou shouldst have been 
my queen, followed as thou wouldst 
thine own belief, and I — but these are 
dreams ! My evil star is in the zenith of 
its baleful light,” he continued, rising and 
gazing upon the stars with a wild and half- 
inspired glance. ‘‘ O Allah ! look upon 
me; guide from the sky of my existence 
that star of my sad destiny, and permit 
that the light of happiness may yet illumine 
my pathway. ” 

He stood thus absorbed, muttering 
strange, weird lamentations to the far-off 
stars, coming out one by one, like dia- 
monds of pure gold in the blue pavement 
of the heavenly courts. Granada had fad- 


DONNA DOLORES. 


25 


ed from their sight, save the lights that 
from countless windows shone out resplen- 
dent from the huge pile of the Alhambra, 
and rested like a crown of glory upon 
the dark hill-top. The Albaycin alone 
was wrapped in gloom, and silent as the 
night itself. In the streets below the lights 
from innumerable dwellings appeared also 
through the dusk. The Moor remained 
for some moments still consulting the stars 
as they sailed across the firmament ; for he 
firmly believed that they must guide his 
course over the great world of light and 
shadow, along the path that leads to the 
Elysian Fields of paradise, where the 
bearded Prophet, beside the throne of 
Allah, receives his followers. Meanwhile, 
Donna Lola watched him in breathless 
suspense. At length he turned to her. 

“O star! " he cried, clasping his hands 
and addressing her with the same in- 
spired glance he had bestowed upon the 
heavens — “ star which hath risen for a mo- 
ment of great joy upon Yusefs stormy 
life, depart and join thy kindred lights 
within those walls where thy sweet spirit 
fain would be. Fair Christian, here thou 


26 


DONNA DOLORES. 


shalt not stay in mourning and despair 
when the bright vision of thy love allures 
thee hence. And yet until the troubled 
night of Yusefs destiny hath ended in a 
dawn of infinite joy within the paradise of 
Allah, he shall not for an instant lose thy 
memory nor forget the joy of having known 
thee. O sweet sultana ! when the light 
of a beloved presence shines upon thee, 
give one thought to the hapless Moor who 
loved thee only less than honor. To-night 
thou shalt depart for Cordova, and mayst 
thou revel in the bright sunlight of love’s 
happy morning.” 

Believe me,” said Lola earnestly, “ O 
noble Moslem ! it shall be my pride to re- 
member that so generous a heart has loved 
me. My own is full of gratitude to thee, 
and yet I cannot thank thee, for Heaven 
alone can worthily requite thee. Yet a 
word : I grieve that I have caused thee 
sorrow.” 

“ Nay, grieve not, lady,” answered the 
Moor ; “ I shall seek forgetfulness where 
warriors best can find it, on the red field 
of war. And now for thee ; twenty of my 
bravest warriors shall attend and speed 


DONNA DOLORES. 


27 


thee safe into the very heart of the be- 
leaguered town, to the stronghold of thy 
Christian kindred. But Yusef says thee 
here farewell. From thy too sadly sweet 
presence he must hasten, lest his malignant 
star should urge him to repent that he has 
set thee free.” 

With some parting words of gratitude, 
and eyes bedewed with tears, Lola drew 
the curtains of her litter, and Yusef, hav- 
ing given orders to the chief of his Gomel 
horsemen, turned slowly and sadly to the 
Puerta del Granada, while Lola and her 
retinue slowly resumed their way across 
the silent, starlit Vega, on either side of 
which the gold of the Darro and the silver 
of the Xenil were alike dark and cold in 
the shadows of night. 

Yusef remained alone, having dismissed 
his remaining horsemen' and gazed after 
the departing train, over the silent Vega, 
over the mournful rivers, over the bleak 
pile of the sierras, and up at the burning 
stars. 

“ O evil planet ! ” he cried, stretching 
his hands towards the heavens, “ O ma- 
lignant star of my hapless fate! wherefore 


28 


DONNA DOLORES. 


hast thou pursued me ? O queen of my 
heart, bright empress of Yusefs love ! thou 
wilt find within thy native Leon the joy 
and gladness that I, among Granada’s 
beauteous scenes and gorgeous palaces, 
shall never know again.” 

Covering his face with his hands, the 
Moor remained a moment in mournful 
meditation. 

“ Wherefore,” he cried suddenly, did 
I permit her to depart ? Time would have 
softened her grief, the beauty of Granada 
gladdened her spirit, and Yusefs love, per- 
chance, gained her heart. But no, I could 
not be her jailer ; nay, I would not b^ her 
tyrant. Better is it now that I remain en- 
shrined in her gentle thoughts as the re- 
storer of her joy, the bestower of her hap- 
piness, though Yusef is alone.” 

Mournfully he turned, and passed 
through the city’s gates, in all the gran- 
deur and the beauty of the scene, alone. 
No heart to cheer him, no voice to greet 
him, all alone, the deep silence of the 
place and time seeming to harmonize with 
his thoughts. Poor follower of Islam, 
true thy courage, unsullied thy devotion. 


DONNA DOLORES. 


29 


noble thy generous heart ! Perchance the 
future holds some compensation for thy 
present pain, some guerdon for thy sacri- 
fice. 

Meanwhile, Lola, as she pursued her way 
with the train of Gomel horsemen over the 
Vega, drew aside the curtains of her litter 
to gaze out upon the landscape. The dark 
figures of the swarthy Moslems were mo- 
tionless upon their horses as marble sta- 
tues. No sound, save the swift tread of 
the litter-bearers, broke in upon her reverie; 
for the Vega was very quiet, the night air 
very still. Lola was lost in admiration 
of the Moor’s astonishing generosity and 
great nobility, and could not restrain a sort 
of regret for the loss her gain had been to 
him. 

The journey was long and tedious, but 
the Vega was soon past, and before her 
eyes stretched out once more the Hispalis, 
or plain of the Guadalquivir, the distant 
walls and towers of Seville, prominent 
amongst which were the Torre d’Oro, made 
golden as their name by the bright morn- 
ing sun. 

During Lola’s absence the Christians 


30 


DONNA DOLORES. 


had been gallantly defending their strong- 
hold. Magued retained possession of the 
town, and still besieged the old convent. 
Don Ruy Garcia de Salas was always to be 
found among its foremost defenders ; but 
he had grown stern and grave, seldom 
smiling, and constantly bewailing his lost 
love and her mysterious disappearance. 
During the silent hours of the night he 
paced the lonely halls looking out over 
Cordova and its flowing river. In those 
old cloisters, where of yore the monks 
had hastened at Matin bell, or come to sing 
their Vesper anthoms, Don Ruy saw many 
a midnight fall and many a pale, white 
dawn break in upon the darkness. Men 
marvelled at the change that had come in 
the gay and genial warrior transforming 
him into a quiet man, scant of speech and 
scanter yet of smiles. But the mists were 
soon to melt, the bright light of a beauti- 
ful dawn was about to break over the dark- 
ness of the warrior’s deep sorrow. 

One morning he descried, from the high 
towers of the convent, a train of Moorish 
horsemen wending their way slowly and 
softly over the plain. He watched them 


DONNA DOLORES. 


31 

enter the gate, but his eyes were sad and 
listless, unconscious of their burden, un- 
conscious what they brought to him. The 
troop drew nearer ; challenged by the 
Moorish guards, they made themselves 
known to their comrades, and having given 
Yusefs name, were permitted to proceed 
on their way. 

At the convent gates the commander 
rode forward and claimed admittance for 
his Christian captive. After some mo- 
ments’ parley, the warder absolutely re- 
fused to receive her, suspecting some snare. 
The Gomel leader paused irresolute,^ and 
the warder had finally consented to sum- 
mon Pelistes, when the clank of a sword 
and the quick tread of a warrior was heard 
upon the marble hall. Don Ruy advanced, 
and having learned from the warder the 
cause of the loud dispute, proceeded him- 
self to question the Moorish envoy. He 
was soon convinced that the lady was 
really a Christian captive, although he was 
at a loss to imagine what the Moor’s 
motive could be in thus returning her to 
her kindred. 

Cautiously the gate was opened, the 


32 


DONNA DOLORES. 


lady passed within, and it clanked again on 
its great hinges. The lady, perceiving the 
knight, stretched out her hands. 

Don Ruy, knowest thou not thy Lola ?” 

“Know thee, thou dead alive,” cried the 
warrior in amazement, “ thou star of my 
night ! nay, mock me not, whoever thou 
mayst be. I implore thee, lady, counter- 
feit not the sweet light of a soldier’s life.” 

When she threw back her veil, and he 
saw that Lola indeed was before him, his 
joy was past description. The stern fea- 
tures were brightened again, the old* joy 
came back to his face, the old happiness to 
his heart, and together they tasted once 
more the brimming measure of gladness 
which had been so suddenly dashed from 
their lips. The tidings of her return were 
broken gently to her gray-haired father, 
who received her as one returned from the 
dead. He had been in his day a famous 
warrior, but was now so chilled with the 
frosts of old age that joy was slow in reach- 
ing his heart, or taking a hold upon his 
life. Throughout the garrison the marvel- 
lous tale spread fast of the Moslem war- 
rior who had generously released his 


DONNA DOLORES. 


33 


Christian captive and restored her safe, 
through danger and through strife, to the 
very centre of her Christian brethren. 

In the little chapel of the Convent of St. 
George, Don Ruy and Donna Lola were to 
be solemnly betrothed. Wherefore, a day 
or two after her return, the chapel was de- 
corated as well as the position of affairs 
permitted. Thither, one quiet afternoon, 
came Pelistes and the other officers of the 
garrison, and after a momentary pause the 
youthful lovers entered. Donna Lola was 
most fair and beautiful, though her gar- 
ments were not what in happier times 
would have adorned the occasion. The 
strange solemnity of the time and place 
had marked her soft and girlish features 
with a deep, unwonted gravity, and her 
eyes, when raised an instant to the altar, 
shone with an inspired light. The chapel 
was full of knights in martial array, and 
ladies in the simple and sombre gar- 
ments to which necessity had reduced 
them, and which seemed to comport well 
with the gray, mildewed walls and solemn 
aspect of the old convent. After the 
ceremony of betrothal had taken place, 


34 


DONNA DOLORES. 


congratulations and good wishes poured 
in upon them on all sides. But no time 
this for idle mirth nor prolonged festivity, 
and before evening the garrison had re- 
turned to its ordinary silence and watch- 
fulness. Yet the young couple were hap- 
py, with a grave, subdued happiness, the 
brave followers of Pelistes rejoiced in 
their comrade’s good fortune, and Donna 
Lola’s venerable father was full of delight 
in having thus secured a protector for 
his daughter from among the bravest of 
Spain’s chivalry. It was agreed that when 
the fortunes of the Spaniards at Cordova 
should seem brighter their nuptials would 
be celebrated with fitting pomp, and the 
ceremony of marriage succeed that of be- 
trothal. 

The weeks glided by, and a terrible ally 
of the Moorish cause appeared within the 
fortress — want and famine were making 
sad havoc among the Christian troops and 
speedily reducing their number. It be- 
came evident that something must be 
done, and that speedily, either to capitu- 
late and obtain what terms they could 
from the Moors, or make a bold effort to 


DONNA DOLORES. 


35 


secure provisions. The former course of 
action was rejected with disdain, and yet 
no plan could be devised by which the 
second might be carried into effect. Pe- 
listes at length declared that he would 
sally forth alone, and in disguise, to obtain, 
if possible, a supply of provisions, and send 
tidings of their dire distress to the other 
Christian towns. 

We need not here repeat the oft-told 
tale of how Pelistes issued from the 
town and was followed by the renegade, 
Magued ; of their bloody encounter, and 
the defeat of the half-exhausted Christian 
leader. Their combat took place beside 
the swiftly-flowing river, among the gray- 
ish sands and scanty shrubbery of the 
shore. Meanwhile, the anxious warriors 
watched from their Convent of St. George, 
and gazed out upon the plain for traces of 
their leader. A troop of Moslems entered 
the gate, and the Christians perceived 
Pelistes borne, pale as death and bleeding, 
on a bier. Then died their hopes ; then 
faded their dream of conquest ; but re- 
venge remained. Besides, it was not yet 
too late ; Pelistes might be saved. Out 


36 


DONNA DOLORES. 


rushed the gallant few in a vain effort to 
save their leader. The Moors were, of 
course, in an overwhelming majority, and 
drove them back, entering their last 
stronghold with them. Hand to hand, 
foot to foot, they fought ; into the clois- 
ters, into the church, into the council 
halls, the brave cavaliers fighting with 
desperate courage. But courage availed 
them not, their doom was sealed, and we 
pass over in silence the short struggle, 
which, when evening came, left scarce a 
Christian warrior on the scene of carnage. 

In one corner of the chapel Donna Lola 
crouched in mortal terror, white and rigid 
with deadly despair. Her father had 
been carried off before her eyes. She had 
remained unnoticed, as one by one the 
Moslems rushed out in pursuit of a few 
straggling remnants of the Christian host. 
All at once she heard a step approach. 
Trembling, her strained eyes sought to 
pierce the darkness. A warrior, torch in 
hand, advanced and stood before her. 
She clasped her hands in a mute appeal, 
and the warrior spoke. 

“ Lady,” he said softly, ‘‘ a star of 


DONNA DOLORES. 


37 


bright portent hath brought me hither to 
thy side. Once more thou art my cap- 
tive ; but Yusef hath never ceased to be 
thy slave.” 

‘‘ Yusef! ” she cried, starting to her feet, 
roused from her apathy ; “ thy captive 
again, O kind preserver! But hearken,” 
shewispered eagerly, one favor, generous 
Moslem; my lover guards the gate; 
haste, that we may seek him and he, too, 
become thy captive.” 

The Moor remained for a moment si- 
lent, as if weighing the cost of a new sac- 
rifice. This knight whom he was called 
upon to save stood between him and hap- 
piness ; he had lost again the chance that 
fate threw in his way, and now — but the 
Moslem was true, not one hollow ring in 
the pure gold of his nature. 

“ Follow me, lady,” he cried, and 
Yusef shall save thy lover.” 

On they went in silence through the old 
monastic halls, through the dim cloisters, 
where awful sights revealed the fierceness 
of the struggle. Mangled corpses lay in 
ghastly piles upon their path, and Yusef 
vainly sought to screen them from his 


38 


DONNA DOLORES. 


companion’s eyes. Cautiously he guided 
her, that her feet might avoid the 
pools of crimson gore. By the light 
of the torch, they finally gained the en- 
trance to the convent, now thrown wide 
open. The city was lying calm enough 
without ; lights were gleaming through 
the dusk; but the evening wind entered 
and moaned and whistled in the cloister 
halls. Just beside the gate, in the dark 
shadow of the wall, they discovered a 
body. A wild scream from Lola pro- 
claimed to the Moor that their mission was 
accomplished. Stark and lifeless, with 
visor raised, disclosing the features, Don 
Ruy lay. On his face was a look of stern 
determination ; in his right hand was his 
sword, still firmly grasped, and his left 
arm lay outstretched upon the floor in the 
stiffness and helplessness of death. The 
evening wind stirred the hair upon his 
temples ; the sightless eyes were still wide 
open, seeming to gaze out upon the distant 
rushing river, beside which his troth, was 
plighted. Swifter and darker than that 
water had come the tidal wave of eternity, 
bearing him away darkly and noiselessly 


DONNA DOLORES. 


39 


upon its surging billows, out into the 
great hereafter. Again the obstrusive 
stars were shining down from the distant 
firmament, down from the Heaven whither 
the soul of the Christian warrior had flown. 

Piercing were the^ cries, heartrending 
the sobs and lamentations of the maiden 
for her lover. Yusef stood by, half-be- 
wildered, but sympathizing with her sor- 
row. He had promised to save her lover, 
but a grim warrior whom he might not 
defy had been beforehand with him. 
Death, the ice-mantled conqueror, had 
frozen him to repose. 

A rush of thought came over the Mos- 
lem’s mind. P'ate had again interposed, 
and the bright star of his happier destiny 
seemed at last in the ascendant. But jea- 
lousy of the dead, of the grief thus lavished 
on the senseless form, was struggling with 
compassion for Donna Lola and pity for 
the gallant defender of the fortress, whose 
tree of life was thus cut down at noon, 
when the sun of hope was bright in the 
firmament of love. 

Lola, too, began to realize her fearful 
situation. She was alone, her lover dead, 


40 


DONNA DOLORES. 


her father taken captive, perhaps slain by 
the foe, and she, helpless and unprotected, 
in the power of the Moor. She knew his 
generosity, and had experienced his cour- 
tesy ; but still she was alone, without a 
meet protector. By Yusefs diligent ef- 
forts, her faithful attendant, Sancha, was 
found, and the Moor then began to make 
preparations for their escape from the 
town. He treated them as he had before 
treated Donna Lola, with the utmost 
courtesy and consideration. He brought 
them, with a strong guard, to one of the 
nearest cities still in possession of the 
Christians, and there left them in secu- 
rity, bidding Lola farewell at the city’s 
gate. 

Years passed on, and the autumn’s bur- 
den of golden grain was mingled many a 
time among the Spanish hills with the red 
harvesting of war’s blood-stained scythe. 
The Moors had gained possession of some 
of the fairest portions of Spain, and the 
struggle still raged fiercely, though some 
provinces had settled down to a peaceful 
calm. In one of these dwelt the beautiful 
Lola, who since her lover’s death had 


DONNA DOLORES. 


41 


never ceased to array herself in robes of 
mourning, and to lead a most retired life. 
Nearly ten years had passed since the mas- 
sacre at the Convent of St. George, and 
left few traces on her lovely face, which 
we saw on the morning of her betrothal 
mirrored in the Guadalquivir’s smooth 
waters. Her face was graver, more sub- 
dued, and seldom lit now by the smiles 
that in the happy summers of her six. 
teenth year were wont to chase each other 
like ripples on the surface of a rivulet. She 
lived, as we have said, retired from the 
world. An elderly duenna, or companion, 
accompanied her everywhere. Sancha, too, 
was with her, married to a soldier to whom 
she had been betrothed in Cordova. With 
several other servants and retainers, they 
composed her household. Here she de- 
voted herself to works of piety, hearing 
the early Masses every morning, giving to 
the poor, tending the sick, laboring for the 
conversion of the Moors. And thus, the 
spring-time of her young life changed into 
a sort of premature summer, she worked 
for the distant heaven that seemed daily 
growing nearer to her. 


42 


DONNA DOLORES. 


One evening she went as usual to the 
church, and was kneeling, calm and serene, 
before the altar, her heart ascending on 
the wings of prayer to the throne of God. 
As she knelt she observed a figure which 
in some vague way seemed familiar. It 
passed and knelt for a few moments just 
where the red light of the sanctuary lamps 
fell upon it. She soon forgot the momen- 
tary impression of familiarity, and became 
again absorbed in her devotions. At last 
she rose, and, followed by her duenna, 
passed out of the church. Just as she had 
come into the open air a step sounded on 
the marble esplanade of the cathedral, and 
the figure of a warrior issuing thence ap- 
proached her. 

Lady of the radiant eyes, that long ago 
enchained my heart, I salute thee ! ” said 
the warrior in a low, deep voice. 

“Yusef!’' cried the lady, “or do I 
dream ? O Moslem ! I rejoice to meet 
thee again.” 

“ Didst thou observe the place of our 
meeting?” asked the Moor, pointing to 
the cathedral. 

“Was it thou, then,” asked the lady 


DONNA DOLORES. 


43 


eagerly, “ whom a moment since I ob- 
served in prayer before the tabernacle?” 

“ Ay, lady, even so. I too adore thy ‘ 
God, the God of the Christians, and for 
the Koran have now the Gospel.” 

“ For this, O Yusef ! ” cried Dolores, “ I 
have prayed at morning and at eve — prayed 
that, in recompense for thy charity to me, 
thou shouldst one day adore the living God 
I worship.” 

Hence was it,” answered Yusef, ‘^that 
his grace came stealing o'er my soul like 
the pale moon over the dark Guadelete. 
To thee I owe my new-found faith.” 

“ Heaven be praised ! God and the 
Mother of God be glorified ! ” cried Lola 
fervently. “ But when and where was the 
blessed change wrought ? ” 

Not now the hour or place to tell a 
tale both long and wearisome ; but, oh ! 
believe, bright star, that since thou first 
didst rise upon the darkness of my life 
the clouds dispersed, slowly, indeed, but 
surely, till the dawn of true belief broke 
through and lit up all my sky.” 

He accompanied her to her door, and 


44 


DONNA DOLORES. 


when she had disappeared remained a mo- 
ment alone without. 

“ O Heaven ! grant,” cried he, gazing 
upon the firmament, “ that the malignant 
star of evil omen hath vanished for ever 
from my path. But nay,” he added, 
checking himself, “ O heathen soul ! 
there are no stars of evil portent in the 
sky of faith ; the constellations that illume 
it are all resplendent with bright hope and 
joy.” 

Wrapping his long, dark cloak around 
him, he vanished through the gloom of the 
surrounding streets. 

The months began to glide by, till stern 
winter had taken flight on its wings of frost 
to its far dominions in the frozen North- 
land, with its brilliant constellations, Orion, 
and the Boreal Crown, and the stars which 
form the circlet once resting on the head 
of mournful Ariadne. Spring came forth 
in all the beauty of a child, with the win- 
ning smiles of that time of life when the 
soul is still marked with the new, unsullied 
image of its Creator, and with the vernal 
beauty which makes youth seem fresh 
from the hand of its Maker. One by one 


DONNA DOLORES. 


45 


the little blossoms stole out from their 
leafy caverns ; one by one the tiny blades 
of grass thrust their heads above the earth, 
rejoicing once more in the sunshine ; one 
by one the trees stood in garments of pale 
green ; one by one the breezes grew soft 
and balmy, and the heart of man was glad- 
dened. 

A new spring had come for Lola. Bit- 
terly she had mourned the dead, and long 
she had believed another love impossible ; 
but the maiden was only in her sixteenth 
year when death had claimed her lover, 
and nine long years had worn away the 
first absorbing sorrow. Yusef was all de- 
votion ; Yusef was now united to her by 
the bond of a common religion ; Yusef had 
shown unparalleled magnanimity when fate 
had thrown her into his hands; and Yusef 
merited the heart which had been the load- 
star of his existence since the hour of 
their first meeting. Dolores at last opened 
her ears to the music of a voice whose me- 
lodious tones had soothed her pain long 
years ago upon the Vega de Granada. 
When he asked her to be his bride, that 
scene rose before her again — the Mulhacen 


46 


DONNA DOLORES. 


in its evening robe of marvellous light; 
the Alhambra in its veil of twilight gold ; 
the Albaycin in its sombre grandeur ; the 
Darro and the Xenil, running their swift 
race, each to pour out its treasures into the 
great ocean. At that time Yusef had laid 
at her feet all material goods, which united 
could not give her happiness. Now he of- 
fered her far less, but showed her a future 
of possible joy, and gladly she accepted 
the offer; wherefore the setting sun of that 
happy day took with him a reflection caught 
from her second betrothal-ring. 

At the court it began to be whispered 
about that the noble recluse, Donna Lola, 
was about to bestow her hand upon a 
Moorish warrior whose high distinction 
and unsullied fame among his country- 
men had been little lessened even by his 
conversion to Christianity. Not averse to 
these matches, which considerably strength- 
ened the Christian cause, the reigning 
monarch willed that the nuptials should be 
celebrated at the court with all due pomp 
and splendor. 

On the appointed day the heavens, as if 
in celebration of the event, were cloudless, 


DONNA DOLORES. 


47 


only flecked here and there by white 
clouds, like foam on the blue surface of 
the ocean. As the bridal train passed 
through the halls, the sun, despising the 
pallor of the marble, laid a cloth of gold 
beneath their feet, and, seeming to have 
taken upon himself the decoration, busily 
wreathed the pillars, freshly gilded the 
carving, and, hastening in through the open 
door, sent a flood of molten gold to light 
the chapel and bring out the colors in the 
porphyry and breccia pillars. Over the 
altar he threw a golden haze like a veil, 
polished the stained-glass windows, and 
cast a hasty, disapproving glance at the 
grim-looking stalls, as he turned to the 
door, again, to await the bridal train and 
lead it up the principal nave to the chan- 
cel-rails, where solemn vows were to be 
pronounced. 

Loud swelled the music’s victorious 
sound, for in joyful strains of that time 
martial triumph was always mingled ; deep 
harmonies rushed through the vaulted 
naves, and bore up the hearts of the wor- 
shippers in swelling chords to the very 
throne of the Most High. The bridal 


48 


DONNA DOLORES. 


train entered ; the Moor’s dark olive face 
bespoke such nobility and generosity of 
soul, and was withal so handsome, that 
many a maiden heart smothered a sigh and 
many a manly eye looked upon him with 
approval ; yet the courtiers, glancing from 
him to the bride, felt involuntary regret 
that some noble Spaniard had not held the 
place this son of Islam so nobly graced. 

The ceremony was performed by the 
archbishop ; the bride’s fair head bowed low 
to receive the benediction, and at that mo- 
ment the sun placed his bridal gift, a crown 
of gold, upon her hair. The king gave 
her away, taking the place of her dead 
sire, the ceremony ended, and Lola was 
the bride of Yusef. Louder and louder 
pealed the notes of triumph, brighter and 
brighter shone the royal sun, as the bridal 
pair turned to pass down the nave, and 
thence out into the portico. The courtiers 
pressed around them with acclamation. 
The queen, as Lola advanced to kiss her 
hand, took the fair bride straight to her 
heart. The clergy prayed their prayers for 
her, and begged her through the future to 
remain true to herself, true to God, as she 


DONNA DOLORES. 


49 


hitherto had been, rejoicing with her, like 
the angels of God, for the one soul that 
had done penance. 

“ I rejoice, most reverend sir,*’ said Lola, 
addressing a venerable priest, “ that by no 
human means hath this great good been 
wrought. The grace of God alone hath 
worked it.” 

** It is the answer to thy patient prayers,’’ 
answered the priest. “ The most high God 
hath done great things for thy husband 
and thee, blessed be his name for ever and 
ever.” 

“ Yea, reverend sir, blessed, thrice bless- 
ed,” answered Lola reverently. 

Then they proceeded to the banquet- 
hall, where magnificence worthy of the 
occasion was displayed. Spain and her 
nobles did them honor, the Spanish sove- 
reigns graced the banquet-hall. Glitter- 
ing coats of mail were .side by side with 
garments of the softest and finest tissues, 
from countries just upon the limits of the 
then known world. Banners and swords 
and costly draperies, gems and jewels of 
fabulous price, fair faces, bright smiles, 
knightly forms, alike gave lustre to the 


50 


DONNA DOLORES. 


wedding-day, while among the guests were 
some whose names the voice of fame had 
caught up and borne away with her on 
her long and tireless errand, which should 
last when those who bore them were mould- 
ering for generations — names of which 
the bearers had often, with their dauntless 
blades, turn^ed war’s red tide for Spain. 
Glorious was the pageant, glorious were 
the actors in it, glorious was the magni- 
ficence which that most royal sovereign 
displayed for her, the daughter of a valiant 
knight. Long afterwards, when the court 
and those who composed it had faded from 
the scene, like a drama at the theatre, was 
it told to wondering ears how unrivalled 
the splendor of the nuptial feast of Donna 
Dolores with the noble Moslem warrior, 
who had become heir to a mighty king- 
dom, where reigns eternally God the 
Creator and his innumerable servants and 
courtiers, the saints and angels. 


THE END. 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 






PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


Spain was not precisely at the zenith 
of her national glory in the famous days 
when the Treaty of Partition threw all Eu- 
rope into an intense excitement, which 
ended only with the equally celebrated 
Treaty of Ryswick. Spain had fallen 
into a decline ; her prowess in arms and 
the might of her armadas seemed almost 
as far off now as the times of the Spanish 
• cavaliers and the heroic ages of their con- 
quests over the Moor. Her people, too, 
had degenerated ; her kings only resem- 
bled the mighty monarchs of the past as 
did the pale train of Scottish rulers whom 
the witches summoned from their royal 
tombs before the affrighted gaze of the 
murderous Macbeth. 

King Charles had fallen into a hopeless 
3 


4 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


melancholy, his mind the prey of morbid 
fancies and wild imaginings. Famine had 
come down upon the land and grasped it 
in a vice of iron. The people rose at 
length and fiercely rushed to the king’s 
palace in Madrid, where their sovereign lay 
in a restless and troubled slumber, which 
seemed to bring no relief to his tortured 
brain. 

Within the palace fear and confusion 
reigned supreme, and none durst make a 
movement towards conciliating the clamor- 
ous mob. At last the queen, who was of 
haughty and resolute character, came forth 
from her apartments and demanded the 
cause of the tumult. She was answered 
that the populace, craving for food, had 
besieged the palace. 

“ And ye, my Spanish nobles,” she said 
scornfully, stand here irresolute. An im- 
partial observer might use harsh terms in 
your regard.” 

Sweeping past them, she gave her or- 
ders : 

Let the windows be thrown open. I 
will speak with this clamorous multitude.” 

Her tall and stately figure appeared 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER, 


5 


upon the balcony, her velvet robes and 
ermine mantle showing off her graceful 
and dignified bearing to the best advantage. 

“ What do you demand, my subjects?” 
said the queen in a clear, rich voice. 

“ Food ! food ! ” cried the mob tumultu- 
ously. 

“Your demand shall be met,” said the 
queen ; “ only have patience.” 

“ Our patience is exhausted !” cried the 
mob ; “ we must speak with the king ! ” 

“ The king is ill, my friends,” said the 
queen, “ and hath sent me as his envoy.” 

We want the king himself! Charles! 
Charles ! you must show yourself ! ” 

“ What is this, my people,” said the 
queen courageously ; “ would you insult 
your queen ? I tell you Charles is ill, 
perhaps dying. Disperse quietly, return 
to your homes, and bread shall be pro- 
vided.” 

A yell of rage broke from the crowd, so 
that the voice of the queen was complete- 
ly drowned, and she was forced to retire, 
full of indignation at this daring insult 
offered her. The violence of the mob be- 
came such that it was clear the king must 


6 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


be induced to appear. The queen herself 
stepped softly to his side. 

“ Charles,” she said, “ arise ; our very 
lives are threatened. Thy subjects clamor 
at the doors for bread, and demand your 
instant appearance.” 

“ What, the people have risen ! ” cried 
the king, starting up ; besiege the palace ! 
what must be done ? ” 

You must appear,” replied the queen, 
“ and make an effort to conciliate them.” 

“ Cursed be those who have roused them 
to this pitch of fury,” said the king ; 
‘‘and oh ! I have had such fearful dreams, 
which chill my blood even now to recall 
them.” 

“ Leave dreams aside,” said the queen 
sternly, “ or the realities may be worse.” 

Supported by the French ambassador, 
,Harcourt, who was extremely popular with 
the people, Charles appeared on the bal- 
cony, deathly pale and scarcely able to 
stand. He was forced to make several 
concessions to the people, amongst which 
was that of dismissing the unpopular min- 
isters, to whose neglect the present calami- 
ties were principally due. The queen was 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


7 


much displeased ; for most of the members 
of the administration favored the Austrian 
cause, to which the queen, being of the 
house of Austria, naturally inclined. She 
held a stormy interview with Harcourt, 
who smiled, and bowed, and made every 
effort to conciliate her. 

The king, indeed, looked ill,” said a 
plump matron, to her husband, “and I 
hope the mob will not have his death 
upon their souls, bringing him out into the 
chill air.” 

“ Oh, no fear, Josefa,” said the good man 
cheerily ; “ death and the king are stran- 
gers for some time yet. Why, I vow he 
was in a similar strait long before I mar- 
ried you. So come home in peace ; we 
citizens have got what we want, and let 
that suffice.” 

Home they went, though the good wo- 
man on her way took occasion to remark 
the queen’s haughty deportment, not for- 
getting the magnificence of the trailing 
robe of velvet, and the brightness of the 
jewels in her crown. This worthy couple 
occupied a quaint-looking dwelling in a 
retired street. The walls were of bluish 


8 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


granite, the windows protected by Vene- 
tian blinds, which, drawn down during the 
heat of the day, kept the rooms cool and 
fresh ; the floors were paved with brick, the 
stiff-backed, rush-bottomed chairs placed 
neatly against the wall, and the whole 
house a model of order and cleanliness. In 
the little parlor their daughter Annunziata 
awaited them, clad in petticoat of fine red 
cloth, beautifully wrought ; a velvet bod- 
ice, embroidered in seed-pearls ; and a 
jacket of bottle-green, bound with gold 
braid. She rushed forward clasping her 
hands. 

“ Madre mia, what have they done to 
the poor king ? Have they killed him ? ” 

“ No, my Nunnita ; he lives and is well,” 
replied the mother. 

“ What ideas get into your little mind ! ” 
cried the father, laughing boisterously. 
‘‘ The king is well enough, but where’s my 
evening kiss ? ” 

“ I forgot, padre,” said the girl, stepping 
forward and laughing lightly — “ forgot you 
in my fear for the poor king.” 

“ Hear that, good wife,” said the portly 
citizen, shaking his sides with laughter. 


PEDRO'S DAUGHTER. 


9 


** Hoity toity, what notions have got into 
the girl’s head ! ” 

Annunziata now bustled round, and soon 
served their evening meal, good substan- 
tial fare for the father, and daintier trifles 
for the women folk. The meal was en- 
livened by cheerful conversation and plea- 
sant bandying of words. The fond parents 
gazed admiringly at their daughter’s beau- 
tiful face ; her complexion was very pale 
and fair, her lips bright red, her features 
piquant in their slight irregularity, her eyes 
very large and dark, her hair deep chest- 
nut, confined by a gold ornament. She 
had a charming face, and an equally charm- 
ing manner, sprightly and cheerful, gay 
and animated. 

A little treat, of which more hereafter, 
was devised during the evening meal. On 
the next day, or that which followed, there 
was to be a public celebration of the king’s 
concessions to the people', it being, besides, 
a festival day. It chanced to be remarka- 
bly bright and sunny, and the good citizen, 
Pedro Alvarez, hired a calesin^ of which 
the bright-painted sides, adorned with pic- 
tures of a bull-fight, flaunted themselves in 


10 


Pedro’s daughter. 


the sun, while the mules which drew it shook 
their long ears in displeasure at their load. 
Pretty Annunziata fastened her handker- 
chief of bright-colored silk around her head, 
and seized her tortoise-shell fan, on which 
the painted birds were so very large that 
there seemed to be imminent danger of the 
whole concern taking flight to the clouds. 

She took her seat beside her mother in 
the low carriage, and her father, placing 
himself opposite, complacently regarded 
his maroon smalls, black silk stockings, and 
dark cloth cloak, which partly concealed 
the somewhat gaudy lining of the calesin^ 
with its fringe of tarnished gold. They 
drove to the Prado, where every class of 
Spaniards were represented in the cease- 
less stream of human beings that crowded 
the narrow alleys bordering on either side 
the broad drive, which stretched between 
the Puerta d’Alcala and the Carrerra de San 
Geronimo. 

The venders of various confections were 
hastening hither and thither calling their 
wares; the water-sellers, in their snuff- 
colored breeches and jackets, black gaiters, 
conical hats, and little kegs, wreathed round 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


II 


with green, slung over their shoulders, 
plyed their trade, and dealt out clear water 
to the thirsty multitudes. Ladies, with 
white or black lace mantillas, caught upon 
high combs at the back of their heads, and 
enlivened with a flower or two, walked 
under the trees, or drove in their bright- 
colored vehicles ; while young gallants, in 
plumed hats and short velvet cloaks, rode 
their superb Andalusian chargers, making 
them curvet and prance, to the delight of 
the lookers on. As our little party of citi- 
zens reached the Puerta del Sol, so con- 
spicuous from its rose-colored fagade, 
adorned with the great round sun, whence 
it took its name, groups of idlers were, as 
usual, collected upon the steps, making vari- 
ous remarks about the passers-by. A hand- 
some young gallant not more than twenty 
years of age was slowly walking his horse 
in front of the Puerta. His attention was 
at once arrested by Annunziata’s beautiful 
face. He rode slowly beside the calesin^ 
and when it had passed, turned his horse 
in order to meet it returning. 

“ So charming a face I have never seen,” 
he said to himself, in a tone of conviction. 


12 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


“And of the citizen class, too, as I know 
by her silken head-gear.” 

The clock in the Puerta struck the hour 
of five with a deep, vibrating sound, as if it 
would warn the pleasure-seekers how swift 
the flight of time. Still the young man 
rode restlessly about, waiting for another 
glimpse of the lovely face he admired. 
Frequently he doffed his hat, adorned with 
a snow-white ostrich plume, and bowed to 
his saddle-girths, as he met the carriages 
of the various court ladies, or returned in 
a jovial and off-hand manner the greetings 
of the young cavaliers who passed him 
on horseback. Occasionally, too, he bent 
with graceful condescension to acknowledge 
the salute of some peasant or mechanic, 
with which class he was a considerable 
favorite. Just as he reached the Cybele 
fountain, he again perceived Annimziata, 
and had leisure to observe her animated 
face, bright and sparkling with the enjoy- 
ment of the day. Unconsciously he stared 
at her, reflecting, meanwhile, how a lace 
mantilla would improve her. Meeting his 
earnest gaze, the girl looked at him for a 
moment in surprise, then drooped her eyes,^ 



PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


13 


and blushed, nor glanced again at the spot 
where he stood till their vehicle had passed. 
By diligent enquiries, the young cavalier, 
Don Rodrigo Guzman, discovered the fair 
Annunziata’s dwelling, and to the street 
before her house so frequently repaired 
that she was fain to notice him. Truth to 
tell, his was a face and figure that could 
not well escape the notice of any feminine 
eyes; and his cloak of mulberry velvet 
and doublet of lemon-colored satin suited 
vastly well his dark, Spanish face, shaded 
by the cavalier’s hat. He was usually 
called, indeed, the handsome Spaniard ; so 
had the merry circle at the court nick- 
named him; and Annunziata was fain to 
smother a sigh now and then, for well she 
knew the line that divided him from her 
grade of society. But her eyes were not 
the only ones upon the premises that 
quickly discovered the cavalier’s frequent 
visits to their modest portion of the town. 
Good Josefa readily surmised their import, 
and in deep perplexity adopted the very 
wisest course the circumstances permitted, 
going straight to her lord and master. 
Worthy Pedro was in no wise perplexed. 


14 


PEDRO'S DAUGHTER. 


but, upon the cavalier’s next appearance, 
boldly approached and addressed him. 

“ No offence, my lord,” he said, with 
honest bluntness ; but, whatsoever your 
purpose, I like not your frequent visits to 
our portion of the town, and the large 
share of attention you bestow upon our 
humble abode.” 

The cavalier looked at him a moment, 
reddening deeply and drawing himself up 
somewhat haughtily, but, as if recognizing 
the citizen’s right to question him, replied 
frankly : 

“ No offence is taken where none is 
meant, though at first it did somewhat 
annoy me that you should thus question 
my movements.” 

‘‘ Knowing my motives, my lord,” said 
the citizen, “ you surely cannot blame me. 
I have a daughter upon whom I would not 
that the wind of heaven should blow too 
freely.” 

“ I do not in truth find fault with you, 
good sir,” said the nobleman. ‘‘You have 
reason to guard her well, for her beauty is 
most rare.” 

“ As Heaven made her,” said Pedro 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER* 


15 


bluntly ; “ but I see in your face that you 
understand me.” 

“ Perhaps you also see in my face that I 
am an idiot,” said the young lord warmly, 
“ having lost my head, and, I suppose, my 
heart, over your beautiful daughter.” 

“ This is indeed the height of folly, my 
lord,” said the citizen sternly, and there 
is but one remedy — that is, not to see her 
again ; but, above all things, I warn you 
not to venture to address her.” 

You need not warn me,” said the lord 
dejectedly ; “ I shall not speak to her, 

Heaven forbid ; for what could I say, if I 
did? But you are right, I am an egregious 
fool to dog her steps and feed my infatua- 
tion by the sight of her face.” 

“ End it at once, like a man, my lord,” 
said Pedro ; “ I am older than you, and 
you are only preparing sorrow for your- 
self.” 

“ Here is my hand upon it,” said the 
cavalier suddenly. “ Believe me, I respect 
your motives and shall take your counsel ; 
but do me a favor. Take this seal, and, if 
ever you should need me, Rodrigo Guzman 
will be at your service. Addios.” 


l6 PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 

And the cavalier had vanished before 
Pedro could reply. He gazed after him a 
moment. 

“ A fine fellow,” he soliloquized, “ and 
i’faith of a proper figure. There might be 
mischief there had my little girl met with 
him. Broken hearts and other fooleries ! ” 

Satisfied with the result of his mission, 
Pedro went contentedly home, setting Jo- 
sefa’s fears at rest and dismissing the sub- 
ject from his mind. 

Meantime, Don Rodrigo* appeared that 
night at a court fete. The scene was most 
brilliant ; the principal families of Spain 
were there represented; the ladies, were 
fair and gracious, and the cavaliers hand- 
some and courteous. Magnificent robes 
of velvet, taffeta, and brocade ; jewels which 
caught the light at every turn ; coronets 
sparkling with precious stones ; tiaras of 
pearls and diamonds ; circlets for the neck 
and arms ; gold clasps of Genoese work- 
manship ; laces that, in their almost in- 
visible fineness, gave softness to fair faces 
and white hands — all combined to adorn 
the scene. Cavaliers, in their doublets and 
hose of satin and velvet, embroidered in 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


I7 

gold, fairly glittered with the orders of 
Calatrava, the Golden Fleece, and San 
Jago de Compostella. When all the good- 
ly company had assembled, the doors were 
thrown wide open and ushers announced 
their majesties. Ranged in groups around 
the hall, the courtiers waited with bowed 
heads while the king, in full robes of state, 
entered, preceded by pages and lackeys and 
gentlemen-in-waiting, and accompanied by 
the queen in a robe of faint-blue Lyons 
velvet, embroidered in diamond stars, 
and an ermine-trimmed mantle of royal 
purple fastened with a diamond clasp ; on 
her head, sparkling with jewels of immense 
size and of the first water, was the crown. 
She was followed by her ladies of honor 
and by the grand chamberlain. When 
they had taken their places, the various 
lords and ladies advanced to offer their 
homage. Amongst them, bland and cour- 
teous, came the Sieur Harcourt, paying 
some graceful compliments to the queen, 
and passing on to exchange gay badinage 
with various groups of ladies, with whom 
he was exceedingly popular. At no great 
distance from the throne, conversing with 


l8 PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 

a little knot of men, was a man whose im- 
posing aspect, no less than his dress, made 
him conspicuous. His eyes were piercing, 
his forehead high, his glance keen and ques- 
tioning; his ecclesiastical robe of scarlet, 
with surplice of fine lace, and the berretta^ 
at once suggested his name and dignity — 
the Cardinal Porto Carrero, Archbishop of 
Toledo, who held the post once occupied 
by the great Ximenes, and took so promi- 
nent a part in the public affairs of Spain 
during that important crisis. 

Don Rodrigo, handsomer even than 
usual, but somewhat quieter, approached 
his sovereigns and bent the knee, grace- 
fully, kissing the queen’s outstretched 
hand. She rallied him a little on his sober 
mood, and jestingly recommended certain 
remedies from divers fair physicians among 
the court beauties. Don Rodrigo wittily 
and happily parried her playful attacks, 
and passed on to make room for new 
comers. He followed Harcourt’s example, 
and devoted a few moments to each of the 
prominent groups, but before the evening 
was over had fully convinced himself that 
he had allowed, his folly in Annunziata’s 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


19 


regard to carry him too far, and was 
now in the position of the moth in the 
fable. Bitterly he repented his indul- 
gence of a fancy which could only dis- 
satisfy him with the scenes and people 
amongst whom his lot was cast. 

However, the f^te passed off, and morn- 
ing brought him various occupations. Still 
he could not shake oft’ the spell cast upon 
him by the face of an humble bourgeoise. 
But stirring times were at hand. While 
he was thus bemoaning his fate, and long- 
ing for one more glimpse of Annunziata’s 
bright eyes, the king had retired to the 
Escurial, that mighty palace of the sove- 
reigns of Spain which, with the church 
attached to it, was founded by Philip II. 
in accordance with a vow. However, the 
appearance thereof is not very attractive. 
It is in the form of a gridiron, in honor of 
St. Laurence, and in the Doric style of 
architecture. Its walls are of a yellowish 
clay color, the whole being surmounted by 
a dome. The church is fine, adorned with 
some beautiful specimens of Spanish art, 
and with the heavily* gilt retahlo^ and rows 
of austere-looking stalls, usual in ancient 


20 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


Spanish cathedrals. Thither Charles pro- 
ceeded, and became gradually worse in 
mind and body. Seized with a strange, 
morbid desire to visit the bones of his pre- 
decessors, he descended into the Pantheon, 
or vault under the church, where in niches, 
lit by funereal lamps, stand the coffins of 
the dead sovereigns who once ruled the 
land. He caused each bronze chest to be 
opened, and gravely and listlessly gazed 
upon its contents, till, coming to that of 
his first wife, he uttered a piercing shriek. 
In all the beauty he had known and loved 
in life she lay before him, the body having 
been embalmed. 

“ She is in heaven, and I shall soon be 
with her,” cried he, rushing out of the 
vault, with drops of sweat, like the mildew 
on the walls, standing out upon his fore- 
head. It was soon found that the Escurial 
proved no more beneficial to his failing 
health than the palace in Madrid ; hence 
he was removed to the gardens of Aran- 
juez, hoping in their tranquil delights to 
restore his jaded spirit. The royal resi- 
dence there was a white and red building, 
of a light French style of architecture, and 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


21 


of which the principal charm lay in the 
luxuriance of the surroundings, watered 
by the Tagus, that beautiful river, crossed 
at this point by a bridge, said in the 
legends of the country to be the same 
over which passed Godoy, called the Prince 
of Peace. The palace stood amid a mini- 
ature forest of cachuchas, castanets, lemon 
and orange trees, intermingled with ash, 
elms, and lindens, which were not, however, 
indigenous to the soil. Gently-sloping 
hills rose from the level plains, giving 
variety to the landscape, and bringing 
cool airs to lessen the scorching heat of 
the day. Charles did not, however, im- 
prove even in this genial and bracing atmo- 
sphere, and, after signing the famous treaty 
v/hich gave Spain to Philip of Anjou, died 
one quiet evening, his feeble, indolent ex- 
istence coming thus early to a close. His 
body was conveyed to the Escurial and 
laid out in royal state, while gaping crowds 
cast wondering looks upon the pinched 
and prematurely aged features, thin and 
scant white hair, which made him seem, 
though scarcely in his prime, an old and 
feeble man. The curious crowds went out 


22 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


to speculate upon his successor’s coming, 
crying, “ Le Roi est mort ! Vive le Roi ! ” 
Perchance it was the air of fair Cas* 
tile that, hurrying over the plains, bore 
the words or their import to the court of 
France. Speedily did the answer come, 
in the person of Philip, who was shortly 
after united to the young and beautiful 
Maria Louisa of Savoy, then in her thir- 
teenth year. Grand were the festivities that 
succeeded their nuptials, but the fire-brand 
had been kindled throughout Europe, 
and Spain was suddenly roused from its 
dreams of pageants and of court festivals. 
William of Orange, indeed, was dead, but 
not before he had urged England to com- 
bine with Holland and Austria against 
France and Spain. Portugal also deserted 
the cause of Philip, and formed an alliance 
with the Archduke Charles of Austria. 
Thus were all the mightiest powers of 
Europe involved in a fierce and destructive 
struggle, which was ever afterwards to be 
known throughout the world as the 
“War of the Austrian Succession.” 
Spain was at her lowest ebb. Philip, 
it is true, was popular, from the grave, 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


23 


gentle affability of his manner; but he 
lacked the force which this great crisis 
required. The Queen Dowager openly 
espoused the cause of Austria and left 
the court in disgust. England had sent 
over Marlborough and another general, 
deservedly great by his military talent 
and courage, Charles Mordaunt, Earl of 
Peterborough. On the other hand, Louis 
sent a large army to the aid of his grand- 
son Philip, and at its head was that able 
soldier, the Duke of Berwick, son of James 
the Second, a melancholy, disappointed 
man, with every day-dream vanished but 
that of military glory. 

The Earl of Peterborough signalized his 
march through Spain by a series of bril- 
liant and astounding victories. Barcelona 
was taken with a handful of men, solely 
by the genius and ability of this great 
general. Fortress after fortress, town after 
town, city after city yielded to the enemy, 
and the English leader marched straight 
upon Madrid. When the capital seemed 
really in the enemy’s hands, the towns- 
people would have fled thence in affright, 
but many of them found escape impossi- 


24 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


ble. The Austrian and English troops 
guarded every entrance to the town. The 
palace was besieged. Philip and Maria 
of Savoy narrowly escaped being made 
prisoners, their flight being entirely due 
to the efforts of their faithful nobles, 
amongst whom was Don Rodrigo Guz- 
man. When his sovereigns were safely 
out of the town, the young cavalier be- 
thought him of a certain humble home 
where dwelt a worthy couple with their 
handsome daughter. Enveloping himself 
entirely in a dark cloth cloak, and drawing 
his hat over his eyes, he wended his way 
by unfrequented streets to the citizen’s 
house. When he appeared at the door 
Annunziata and her mother uttered a 
piercing cry, and Pedro, starting to his 
feet, seemed about to put himself upon 
the defensive. The visitor removed his 
hat, and placing his 'finger upon his lips 
enjoined silence. Pedro at once recog- 
nized and saluted Don Rodrigo, who, after 
a few courteous, reassuring words to the 
frightened women, communicated to the 
citizen a plan by which he hoped to re- 
move them in safety from the city. Pedro 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


25 


then pointed out to him another occupant 
of the room, a venerable priest, who, hav- 
ing been somewhat prominently con- 
nected with the events of the time, had 
thought it prudent to seek safety in ob- 
scurity. Don Rodrigo at once recognized 
him as one of the court chaplains, and 
having greeted him with profound respect, 
knelt to obtain his blessing. Young 
nobles of that day had not yet imbibed the 
pernicious Voltairean spirit, and out of the 
nobility of their hearts gloried in graceful 
deference to old age, and above all to the 
sacred character of the priesthood. The 
good old man gave him his blessing, and 
made many affectionate enquiries for the 
king and queen and other prominent person- 
ages of the court. He was informed that 
they, with the Cardinal Porto Carrero and 
a few attendants, had escaped to a place 
of safety. By the providence of God, 
through the instrumentality of Rodrigo, 
the little party, accompanied by one or 
two of the young cavalier’s trusty fol- 
lowers, succeeded in eluding the vigilance 
of the guards. But their troubles only 
commenced when they had left Madrid. 


26 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


All the surrounding country was in posses- 
sion of the foe, and no resource re- 
mained to them but to wander through 
unfrequented paths and gloomy forests, 
till, after many hardships, they reached 
the mountains of the Sierra Morena ; they 
journeyed through its rugged defiles, be- 
side deep, gloomy gorges and immeasura- 
ble precipices, bounded by steep, frown- 
ing crags that rose upon the sight like 
shapes of horror. As they wandered, 
weary and exhausted, with no hope of 
rest, they suddenly came to a rudely built 
hut, which upon examination proved to 
be deserted. Within was a little open fire- 
place that, judging from the traces of ashes 
and cinders, had evidently been frequently 
in use ; a few damp, rickety-looking stools 
was the only furniture of the cheerless 
abode, whose walls were considerably im- 
paired by frost and mildew. It certainly 
did not present a very inviting prospect ; 
but Rodrigo’s energy was equal to the 
occasion. His followers, by his instruc- 
tions, collected a pile of wood, and after 
great exertions kindled a cheerful little 
fire upon the hearth, and having taken 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


27 


every precaution to dry the apartment 
and make it habitable, it at last pre- 
sented a moderately comfortable appear- 
ance. The untiring cavalier was not, 
however, satisfied. Leaving the remainder 
of the party in possession of the hut, he 
started forth in search of one of those 
caverns which the soldier, who acted as 
guide, declared to abound in these re- 
gions, and, as fortune would have it, found 
one not a stone’s-throw from the little 
wooden habitation, having been probably 
used, as they now intended to use it, for 
an addition to the hut. Much care was 
required in examining the cave, lest it 
should be a den of wild beasts. It was, 
however, found to be empty ; and similar 
precautions in drying it having been taken, 
it proved a commodious sleeping-apart- 
ment for Pedro, the priest, and Rodrigo, 
who made very tolerable couches for them- 
selves, such as they had made for the 
ladies in their hut, out of the saddle-cloths, 
travelling blankets, and cloaks. 

Here also slept those of the soldiers who 
were not upon guard, and a good fire being 
constantly kept lighted, they were all very 


28 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


comfortable and well pleased with the 
quarters Providence had provided for them. 
Here they remained in peaceful security 
for several weeks, Rodrigo waiting for an 
opportunity to join the standard of the 
Duke of Berwick. The soldiers frequently 
made foraging excursions, shooting game 
when they could, occasionally bringing 
home upon their sturdy shoulders a huge, 
fat bear, which they cut into slices and 
roasted at the fire; or if all failed, they 
descended into the neighboring hamlets 
to obtain a supply of provisions. 

It was a curious sight to see this 
strangely-assorted party moving about 
among the dark sierras — the priest with 
snow-white hair and venerable aspect, the 
portly citizen in sad-colored doublet and 
cloak, his worthy wife in her coarse serge, 
and the graceful figure of their daugh- 
ter enveloped in- her Spanish mantle 
and hood, at whose side was so often 
seen that favorite of court circles on 
whom the sighs of so many high-born 
maidens had been wasted, and who looked 
not one whit less handsome in a hunting- 
suit of bottle-green slashed with scarlet. 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


29 


In the long evenings they all sat round 
the blazing fire in the hut telling old 
legends, of which the priest especially had 
an abundant store, or making each other’s 
hair stand on end with stories of the 
mountain brigands who infested forests 
or ruined castles, or of coiners who pursued 
their unlawful calling in the bowels of the 
earth. To add effect to these tales of hor- 
ror, the winter wind without swept in 
fierce blasts over the mountains, wrestling 
with the giant crags, their ancient ene- 
mies since the creation of the universe, or 
shrieking in uncanny gusts around the 
hut, vainly seeking entrance through its 
time-worn walls. 

During these weeks of familiar inter- 
course, Ave cannot vouch that Annunziata’s 
bright eyes were not making still greater 
havoc in Rodrigo’s heart, nor yet that 
the maiden had not learned to appreciate 
the goodness, the gentleness, the piety 
concealed under that handsome and grace- 
ful exterior, which had long ago captivat- 
ed her fancy. Pedro watched the course 
of things with secret uneasiness, and many 
a time the worthy citizen shook his head 


30 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


and sighed if he chanced to perceive the 
young couple together, as when, for in- 
stance, the cavalier assisted Annunziata to 
prepare their meals, or to lift the pot of 
boiling water from the fire, all of which 
was plainly a labor of love for him. At 
such times Josefa, with a placid resigna- 
tion, urged her Pedro to remember the all- 
disposing intervention of Heaven, saying : 

“ Heaven has a care over all these 
things, good husband, and our poor judg- 
ment cannot penetrate its ways.” 

To which Pedro readily assented, little 
suspecting that certain ambitious hopes, 
of which she herself was perhaps uncon- 
scious, were springing up in his worthy 
helpmate’s mind. 

Affairs were at this critical juncture 
when one evening the soldier who had 
gone down to procure provisions was 
tracked by a band of disaffected Spaniards 
and Portugese, and the little party seated 
at supper in the hut were suddenly dis- 
turbed by the sound of approaching feet. 
Bravely then did Rodrigo and his follow- 
ers seek to maintain their position. Sta- 
tioning themselves at the head of the nar- 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 3 1 

row defile, Rodrigo asked of the leader, 
who approached by the light of a torch : 

“ Whom seek ye ? ** 

“ Traitors,” cried the soldier fiercely. 

‘‘There are no traitors here, except it 
be yourselves,” cried Rodrigo, at the same 
time discharging a volley from his cara- 
bine, which was a signal for the beginning 
of hostilities. Like Leonidas of old, the 
little band defended itself against an over- 
whelming majority of its foes, till the 
enemy, assuming their forces to be consid- 
erable, fled in confusion. What was Rod- 
rigo’s consternation when he then discov- 
ered that Pedro was slain, a ball having 
pierced his heart. His wife, who had im- 
prudently rushed forth to throw herself on 
his breast, had been wounded in the left 
lung by a bullet, and lay within the hut 
stricken unto death, while the padre, after 
endeavoring, as best he could, to staunch 
her wound, was seeking to revive Annun- 
ziata, who had fallen into a death-like 
swoon. The girl, however, soon recover- 
ed, and devoted herself to the care of her 
mother, whose last hours were harrassed 
by anxiety for her daughter, whom she 


32 PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 

was leaving alone and unprotected. The 
priest after hearing her confession and 
preparing her for death, endeavored to 
console her by dwelling upon the mercy of 
God, and promising that he himself would 
watch over her daughter as far as possible. 
But, alas ! he was only less perplexed than 
herself. How could he foresee what in the 
casualties of life might hereafter occur? 
The chill of old age already warned him 
that his own death could not be far dis- 
tant, and even for the present Annunzi- 
ata’s position alone amongst a number of 
men would be most painful and em- 
barrassing. Hence he found it difficult to 
administer any solid consolation to his 
dying penitent, whose touching com- 
plaint still rang in his ears ; 

“ God forgive me, but, O padre ! I can- 
not die in peace. Who, who shall be my 
child’s protector ? ” 

“ God,” replied the priest, pointing so- 
lemnly upwards, as he saw the gray shadow 
of speedy dissolution creeping over her 
face. 

“And I, under God,” said Rodrigo, 
who had entered suddenly, and who stood 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


33 


with folded arms gazing at the dying 
woman. 

“ You ? ” said the priest in amazement, 
while Josefa, whose faculties were already 
chilled by death, fixed her eyes upon him 
wonderingly. A struggle had been going 
on for some moments in the young cava- 
lier’s breast. Pride and some voices from 
the old brilliant life at the Spanish court 
were calling on him to draw back before 
it was too late. On the other hand, the 
dying woman’s anxiety for her daughter, 
.the presence of death, which showed him 
the worthlessness of earthly honor, the 
consideration that to him, a homeless 
wanderer, rank, was of little import, the 
innate chivalry of his soul, which urged 
him to deliver the poor girl from her em- 
barrassing position, and, more than all, his 
great, strong love for Annunziata, drowned 
the voice of pride, which had spoken very 
loudly in his soul, all the old prejudices of 
a long line of hidalgoes welling up. within 
him ; but they melted like the mists at 
dawn, and he answered firmly and unhesi- 
tatingly : 

Father, the need is very great, time 


34 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


presses ; wherefore I pray you, before this 
good soul departs to the presence of her 
God, unite Annunziata to me in marriage, 
and once having the right to protect her, 
none shall dare gainsay it.” 

The priest could scarcely believe his 
ears ; the heir of that proud race desiring 
to wed a bourgeoise / but he knew the 
young man’s truth and honor, and re- 
joiced. Josefa, too, raised her hands and 
eyes to heaven in thanksgiving, the shadow 
on her face rendering it most solemn. 

Annunziata was summoned. Don Rod- 
rigo took her hand, asking her to trust him 
implicitly, and henceforth regard him as 
her dearest friend and only protector, ex- 
plaining to her the hasty ceremony which 
the occasion demanded. The girl stood 
as one struck by a thunderbolt ; her father 
dead, her mother dying, and, face to face 
with this overpowering sorrow, a great 
happiness to which her wildest hopes had 
never pointed. But just then she was too 
bewildered to understand it in its true 
light, and, covering her face with her hands, 
as if to collect her thoughts, she stood 
silent and motionless. But Don Rodrigo 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


35 


urged upon her the great reason for haste. 
The priest, too, uttered words of advice 
and encouragement, and the mother wept 
for joy, and in broken words expressed her 
gratitude and delight at Don Rodrigo’s 
generosity. 

“ But yoUf'" asked Annunziata in a low, 
troubled voice, “ are you to bind yourself 
to me for ever through pity ? I will not 
allow it. I will rather seek the foe and 
ask for mercy. Are you to blight your 
whole life by your generosity? ” 

“Annunziata dearest,” said the cavalier 
softly, “ some time I will tell you how little 
generosity there is in this action. It 
springs from a feeling that awoke within 
me that sunny day upon the Prado. I 
will not ask you to guess what I mean, but 
never name pity again where love would 
be the only appropriate word.” 

Annunziata looked at him for a moment, 
as if reading his very soul, and he went on : 

“ But is the sacrifice too great to ask of 
you? If so, I shall try and devise some 
other means for your protection. Only, I 
beg of you, reflect, and if you love me ever 
so little, try to consent, for it will be the 


3 ^ 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


best means of ensuring your future, as well 
as your present, welfare.” 

He managed to satisfy himself upon this 
point, and when she had really consented, 
led her over to her mother’s bedside, and 
there they knelt down. 

Your blessing, mother,” cried Annun- 
ziata, choking back a sob. 

The mother turned her stiffening features 
towards them, and murmured the words of 
benediction with her failing breath. 

“ Here I swear,” cried the cavalier so- 
lemnly, “ in the presence of Heaven, to be 
faithful to the trust God has given me to- 
day as long as he vouchsafes me the 
power.” 

Then the soldiers were called in to wit- 
ness the marriage contract in that solemn 
chamber of death, away from all human 
associations, among the mighty peaks and 
glaciers of a vast mountain range, far above 
the level of the earth, where the shrieking 
storm-winds howled their loudest. The 
fire on the hearth burned low, the dim light 
of the candle fell on the rigid .face and 
figure of the dead Pedro, on the pinched 
features of the dying Josefa, on whom 


PEDRO'S DAUGHTER. 


37 


death’s messengers were setting the seal of 
mortality. The priest stood vested with 
surplice and stole, Rodrigo and Annunziata 
before him, with faces deathly pale from 
the solemnity of the moment. The mo- 
ther’s wedding-ring was used, the marriage 
ceremony speedily performed, and as the 
priest pronounced them man and wife till 
death did them part, the mother, support- 
ing herself upon the pillow, raised her hand 
for a last benediction, and fell back dead; 
the bars of the prison-house had burst, and 
the immortal soul was free. The fire burn- 
ed down so low that it almost seemed ex- 
tinguished, and at the moment the door was 
burst open and a fierce blast swept through 
the hut. The candle flickered and went 
out, the fire leaped into a blaze, and by 
the light of a torch held in the leader’s 
hand the inmates of the hut recognized 
the enemy, who had noiselessly surround- 
ed the hut, and, attracted by the curious 
ceremony within, had stood gazing in at 
the little window till its conclusion. By 
the same lurid glare the enemy discovered 
the presence of the dead, and involuntarily 
removed their hats. 


38 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


More witnesses to our marriage con- 
tract,” said Don Rodrigo with a melan- 
choly smile. “ Are ye come, good sirs, to 
celebrate our wedding ? ” 

“ We have come,” said the leader of the 
band, “ to arrest the traitorous nobleman 
Rodrigo Guzman in the name of Charles 
the Third. If you are he, give up your 
sword.” 

I will not here dispute Duke Charles’s 
claim to the title you give him,” said Rod- 
rigo, unbuckling his sword, “ and I think 
there is none to dispute the latter half of 
the title you have given me. There is my 
sword, sir ; it used to be deemed a good 
one.” 

Hilt first he gave it to the officer, and 
begged an instant’s grace to say farewell. 
He held his wife a moment in his arms, 
then shook hands warmly with the padre. 

“ Behold, good father,” he said, “ ano- 
ther instance of human foresight ; the 
protector is himself helpless.” 

“Another one remains,” replied the 
priest, “ the first and best — God.” 

One more duty remained. Reverently 
the young man bent the knee in a hurried 


PEDRO'S DAUGHTER. 


39 


prayer for the dead, and, turning to the 
soldiers, declared himself at their service. 
The warrant did not permit his wife to ac- 
company him, nor did not include the 
padre or the attendants in the order of 
arrest. After he had departed, Annunziata 
checked her grief with wonderful fortitude, 
and assisted in paying the last rites to the 
dead, who were buried side by side in a 
corner of the cavern, where a rude wooden 
cross was placed to point out their graves. 
Then Annunziata, bidding farewell to the 
old priest, to the rough but kindly soldiers, 
who had been a part of their lives during 
the past eventful weeks, departed alone, 
wearing the disguise of an Andalusian 
peasant. Journeying by isolated paths, 
she wended her way towards Madrid, 
where she gained admittance as a vender 
of fruit, and, currying favor with guards, 
found her way into the presence of the 
English general, whom current report had 
highly lauded for his acts of benevolence. 

Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough, 
was then in the full pride of manhood. 
Handsome, brave, and chivalrous to the 
last degree, he had won the epithet of the 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


40 . 

“ last of the knight-errants ” from his con- 
stant craving for adventure. 

When Annunziata was ushered into his 
presence he was sitting in a large easy 
chair, amusing himself by attempting a 
pen portrait of the beautiful Duchess of 
Popoli, whose life, he had saved at the 
taking of Barcelona. The portrait was in- 
tended for a friend in England. When 
Annunziata entered he looked up in sur- 
prise, but she threw herself at his feet cry- 
ing: “ Pardon, great general, pardon ! ” 

** Pardon for whom, fairest of petition- 
ers?” said the earl. “ I beg you to arise.” 

And so saying, he raised her gently. 

“ Do not be afraid, child,” he continued ; 
“tell me your story. Is it father, or 
brother, or perhaps some boy-lover for 
whom you have come to plead ? ” 

The color mounted a little to her face 
as she answered : 

“ I have come, my lord, to beg you to 
set free my husband.” 

“ Your husband, child ?” said the general 
in astonishment. “ Why, I should not have 
supposed you were married. But what is 
his name ? ” 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


41 


“ Don Rodrigo Guzman,” she replied 
promptly. 

Ah ! ” said Lord Peterborough, glanc- 
ing at her sharply, “that is an affair of 
different color. So the peasant’s dress, as I 
suspected, is not your natural garb. I am 
sorry, but your husband, it seems, is accused 
of grave offences.” 

“ Fidelity to his sovereigns, my lord,” 
said Annunziata, flushing warmly, “ love 
of his country, and generosity to the un- 
fortunate — these are his only crimes.” 

“ He has a most lovely pleader,” said 
the earl courteously, “ and is so far fortu- 
nate. But he has not been brought into 
Madrid as yet, and I doubt if I have the 
power to assist you in procuring his re- 
lease.” 

“ Save him, save him ! ” cried the girl, 
clasping her hands in her ardor, as she 
proceeded to pour out the story of Rodri- 
go’s generosity into the earl’s sympathetic 
ear. It was a tale that powerfully appealed 
to the reckless nobility and chivalrous in- 
stincts of the great leader, and was not 
without its effect upon him, when united 
with the loveliness of the narrator, for 


42 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


Peterborough was never known to remain 
insensible to the power of beauty. 

“A knightly deed, upon the honor of a 
soldier,” he said, striking the hilt of his 
sword. “ If my influence be worth anything 
here, this young cavalier shall be saved, 
and moreover, I hope when this unlucky 
war is over, to have an opportunity of 
meeting face to face a Spaniard capable of 
such an act.” 

Peterborough then called an orderly 
and gave the necessary commands, after 
which he rose, and himself conducted An- 
nunziata to the door of the apartment. 

“ Pardon our rough soldier ways, fair 
lady,” he said gallantly ; ‘‘ and if that 
brave little heart, which dared so much to 
save your husband, has a prayer or a 
thought to spare, give it to Charles Mor- 
daunt of Peterborough, of whom I dare 
say,” he added with a half sigh, *‘you will 
hear many a sad tale, for, truth to tell, I fear 
there is little of the saint about him, and 
that little no one will take the trouble to 
repeat.” 

Gratefully Annunziata bid him fare- 
well ; and long after, when fate was hard 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


43 


upon the gallant earl, and he had returned, 
after years of wandering, to his native 
England, she dropped a quiet tear at his 
undeserved misfortunes. 

But Providence had not, after all, de- 
creed that Rodrigo should owe his escape 
to the generous Englishman. Gold, which 
was all-powerful with the wild guerilla 
warriors who had captured him, easily 
tempted one of them to set him free. 
Driven by necessity and the fear of being 
recaptured, he spent the night succeeding 
his release in a gipsy encampment, where 
the uncouth Bohemians stared at him 
with all their might and chatted in an un- 
known tongue, but, nevertheless, willingly 
offered him a share of their rude repast. 

Meantime Annunziata, having passed 
without the walls of Madrid, was filled 
with fear and uneasiness. When the gene- 
ral had sent his orders for Rodrigo’s re- 
lease, he also promised to apprise him of 
the place where he should join Annunziata. 
But how was she to reach it, already ex- 
hausted and worn out by fatigue and ex- 
citement ? After wandering a whole day, 
she came to a little hamlet, to the wretched 


44 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


inn of which she directed her steps in hopes 
of obtaining food. Its humble parlor was 
occupied by two or three rough-looking 
men, clinking their glasses and throwing 
dice, all of whom greeted her by a boister- 
ous shout. 

“ There’s a jaunty little manola^' cried 
one, whose voice was hoarse and husky 
from his deep potations. 

“ Trips as light as a cachuca girl,” 
shouted another. “ Come over, pretty one, 
and tell us whence you come.” 

Annunziata trembled and made no re- 
ply, but addressed herself to the landlord, 
as jolly and red-nosed as most of his class, 
asking for food. 

No food you shall have,” said the re- 
veller, bringing his fist down upon the 
table and making the glasses ring, “ till 
you answer my questions.” 

“ Now, now, gentlemen,” cried the land- 
lord, “ consider the peaceful character of 
my house, where such brawls are unknown. 
I pray you desist.” 

“ Good vintner, attend to your wares,” 
said the man in the same unsteady voice. 
“ I say, sweetheart, are you deaf? ” 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


45 


“ Take that for your insolence, master 
winebibber,” said a young cavalier who 
entered at the moment, dealing him a blow 
with the flat part of his sword. “ Go your 
way, for a poltroon, who is not ashamed to 
frighten women.” 

The man seemed on the point of resent- 
ing the words and the blow, and his com- 
rades rose to their feet ; but, seeing the 
determined aspect of the cavalier, still 
holding his drawn sword in his hand, they 
slunk out, one by one, scowling at him as 
they passed. Rodrigo then put up his 
blade, and turned to reassure the supposed 
stranger, when Annunziata, venturing at 
last to recognize her husband, ran over to 
where he stood, laying her hand on his 
arm with a childish and most natural move- 
ment. 

“ My own Nunnita,” he cried in sur- 
prise and delight, “what good fortune 
brought me hither, and how is it you are 
here ? Did I not leave you in the moun- 
tain hut ? ” 

“ Whence,” she said a little shyly, “ I 
have been to Madrid, and begged the Eng- 
lish general tb set you free. I told him 


46 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


how good you were, and he promised, but 
this is not where he spoke of sending you.” 

“ No ; because I had probably escaped 
before his order of release arrived, and it 
is as well, for I should then have been 
upon parole. But what did you do next, 
bravest of little wives?” 

^‘When I was outside the city’s gates, 
it seemed so far to where he told me to 
meet you, and I had no money, so I wept ; 
and then I wandered on and on till I came 
here.” 

“ Where the hand of God has surely 
brought me,” said Rodrigo, deeply touched 
by her simple narrative. 

Thus reunited with his wife, he brought 
her to a place of security near the camp of 
the Duke of Berwick, where he was again 
obliged to leave her occasionally, when 
military duty required his presence in the 
camp. One evening the duke had assem- 
bled his officers in council, when a veiled 
maiden suddenly entered, and stood before 
him. 

“ Whom seek you,” asked the duke 
sternly, “ and wherefore do you thus enter 
our presence ? ” 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER 


47 


** I seek Don Rodrigo Guzman,” she an- 
swered timidly. 

“Unveil, then, that we may see who 
speaks,” said the duke in the same cold 
tone. 

Reluctantly she threw back her veil, and 
a murmur of admiration went through the 
assembly, mingled with some openly-ex- 
pressed remarks upon her personal appear- 
ance, which the duke checked by a glance. 
As he was about to question her more 
closely, Don Rodrigo entered. 

“ How now, my Lord Guzman,” said the 
duke sternly, “ what mean such unseemly 
messengers ? ” 

Before he could answer, Annunziata, 
seeing her husband, flew to his side, and 
whispered : 

“ Fly, beloved, there is danger.” 

“You interrupted me, girl,” said the 
duke still more sternly. “ I pray you let 
me be heard.” 

Meanwhile the officers looked on in sur- 
prise, the duke in evident disapproval, till 
Rodrigo, drawing Annunziata’s arm within 
his own, drew himself up slightly as he 
said : 


48 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


“ Before we proceed, your grace and 
gentlemen, let me present my wife, who, 
it seems, has come to warn me of impend- 
ing danger.” 

Much surprise was manifested, enquiring 
whispers passed from mouth to mouth, but 
the duke with stately courtesy saluted her, 
touched her forehead with his lips, and 
gave her the place of honor beside him. 
Then Annunziata warned them of danger. 
A large force under the Prince of Hesse 
was advancing, and but for this timely in- 
formation the camp would have been sur- 
prised and the forces probably slaughtered. 
Loud was the applause of the heroic action 
of the girl, who had come some miles on 
foot to save the army. Even the melan- 
choly duke smiled upon her, and when the 
danger was passed and an important vic- 
tory gained through her means, listened 
with much interest to the story of her ro- 
mantic marriage and her subsequent brave 
effort for her husband’s freedom. The 
simple narrative strangely moved this 
stern and reticent man, striking some 
chord long silent in his heart, and which 
now vibrated to the touch as, perchance. 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


49 


it had done in days when fortune seemed 
to smile upon him, and the highest offices 
and proudest positions in England had 
been at his command. Life had proved 
one long disappointment ; the years had 
dealt hardly with him ; glory was now his 
mistress, the laurel wreath upon his brow 
his only pride. But throughout Spain 
and France he was regarded as a man of 
unsullied honor, of stern integrity, of unre- 
lenting justice, and of unstained reputa- 
tion. 

And here we leave him, having dwelt 
but a moment on the two great leaders in 
whose subsequent history so marked a 
change was speedily produced. The gal- 
lant, warm-hearted Earl of Peterborough, 
as esteemed for bravery as for knowledge, 
for wit as for learning, for great general- 
ship as for magnanimity, provoked the 
jealousy of his associates in Spain, and 
especially that of the Archduke Charles, 
and, as we have before hinted, was re- 
called in disgrace to England, though he 
had in reality done more for the Austrian 
cause than almost any other leader. He 
seemed to have bequeathed his good for- 


50 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


tune to Berwick, who now gained a series 
of rapid, decisive victories, supported by 
the peasantry, who had arisen at the last 
moment and succeeded in restoring Philip 
to the capital, where we leave him and 
Spain, being unable to follow that unhappy 
country through the further mazes of this 
long war. We shall take one more glance 
at our hero and heroine, who thenceforth 
resided in Madrid, happy in each other’s 
society, often dwelling with greatful hearts 
upon their narrow escape from death, and 
recalling their marriage in that early dawn, 
when the fire burned low upon the hearth, 
the bride’s dead father lay a solemn wit- 
ness to the contract, a dying mother 
blessed their union with her failing breath, 
and their very enemies attested it within 
that humble hut among the giant crags 
and rugged defiles of the Sierra Morena, 
Frequently did the good padre who had 
united them drop in to chat over the past, 
and, rubbing his hands softly together, de- 
clare he was instrumental in their present 
happiness. Often did the young couple 
visit the little granite house in the quiet 
street, and more often still repair to pray 


PEDRO’S DAUGHTER. 


51 


beside a costly tomb in the cemetery of 
Madrid. It bore the names of two who had 
slept side by side for many a month upon 
the snow-whitened summit of the moun- 
tain, little recking that a simple cross 
had been their only monument. So pious 
and exemplary were the lives of Don Rod- 
rigo and his lovely wife, that neighbors, 
pointing to them, held them up as models, 
while the fame of their romantic lives 
caused them to be looked upon with inte- 
rest, and spoken of as the noble and his 
bourgeoise wife, whom he had married 
among the storm-swept peaks of the Sierra 
Morena. \ 


THE END. 




V 


f 










, f 


I 








I 


ft 


I 


i 

» 



t 


*• 

I 

S'- ^ 

I 

, » * 


I 


I 

I 





» 


I 


< 


« 


^ . , 

•►: 


9 

I » 


i 


• » 

4 


f 


✓ I 


i 

1 

4 



















•r ■ 

: . V . 


r 


% 



% 






^ 1 

• I. 

J 






% 


t 



S 

# 




I 


1 


* 


t 



4 


K 

S 


> 

ft 




{A 

V. 


: ry^*! 


\ 


4 

•% 


f 

,1 


*>* 

- .t 

^ * 



j 


i 


I h 


ft 


i 








.ri 


i - ' ».•;, . , \ 

” *'it***^'* * . * • ' * • V» 

Wi- •■•’■■• ■.•. •-, . 

afiv JMM . #^‘ ‘ • 


^ «p \ 


, ;■ 


/ .• 


■if V 

. •>*/* • .. V. ^ 

- 3 • j 





.f t \ 




f « " 1 


Vl 


\ * 




>• 

• r 


. yAf- 

•‘ .* .A..' -V;. 

■; .5*.. ' • : 


. -v 




^ ‘ '• ♦ f y.- •.’-*• 

-■ , , V..**'’-'-' ; 


k . ..^ 


^ , > 


1 ^ *► 


4 • 


;> 



4 •• . 




•/' V 


I* . 

-A ’y-' 

■ ■ '<■ ^».!r'' 

''T, 


Vy 




-•" -r 


* ■•. tj- . 

• V^''0 

. V ■ ^ 




H/ 


s 


^ ^ 


I ^ ' 


* « 


>/• y^ ^ 


^ ^ 4\:i 

♦ « ^ j ' '•V»* . ^ 


. . . n s 


;• - , •. .?■'• r'.' -V f-'‘\ 

<«|| 'Vt>:. V.' ■‘'.’ •■' . ’■ •''■ - '^-iX ' •' Vi ' ' • '. -. V ' • • "j 1 

' s ^ j', ' r ■ .^ .;»>!*"'.■ V.. #r • 




.5- 




kA' "■^^- ■■■■■ '■ 

’-^•V’' . ■ •&iir/:' ■ --V.v. 


Y 

l: 





4 

« • 


•» •» 


■4-.. 



• « 




• f * 

I V 


‘"A'' '•iv’r'* ■ i.;- V 


.m1*J 





